Red Violin
by inkstainedfingers97
Summary: Patrick Jane flipped through his program impatiently without attending to the details of its content. He'd read quite a bit about the San Francisco Symphony's new solo violinist, and he was anxious to see her in action. All the reviewers raved about her. He wanted to see if she lived up to the hype. AU/Romance
1. Chapter 1

Title: Red Violin

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, not making any money off them.

Rating: Teen

Genre: AU/Romance

Spoilers: It's an AU, so I'm gonna go with none.

A/N: Dipping my toe into AU waters...

xxx

Patrick Jane shifted in his seat of red velvet and flipped through his program impatiently without attending to the details of its content. He'd arranged to have the theater box to himself so he wouldn't have to deal with mindless chatter, but waiting was still tedious.

He tapped his program against his knee and checked his watch, noting with relief the performance was scheduled to start in five minutes. He'd read quite a bit about the San Francisco Symphony's new solo violinist, and he was anxious to see her in action. All the reviewers raved about her, calling her the most incredible thing to happen to the violin since Jascha Heifetz. He wanted to see if she lived up to the hype.

This was the last performance of the season. He'd gotten here absurdly early, which hadn't helped his general feeling of impatience. But he couldn't help coming early. This was the first event that had piqued his interest in far longer than he cared to remember. He'd tried not to get his hopes up, but he was afraid he'd allowed the glowing reviews to raise his expectations despite his best intentions. As a result, he'd found himself at the theater when the doors opened. He'd been escorted to his private box before the first wave of guests had even picked up their tickets at will call. In short, his current situation was entirely of his own making. He had no one but himself to blame for the fact that he'd been waiting alone in an empty box for the better part of an hour.

It didn't really matter, though. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

Music was his new thing. He'd tried other methods, of course, to varying degrees of success. Alcohol, drugs, art, sex. Stupid adventure activities designed for adrenaline junkies. None of them had been the solution he'd been looking for. He'd found that while each of them provided temporary relief from the numbness, none could effectively combat it for a prolonged period of time. That was what he was after. Something that could stave off the numbness for longer than a few minutes or a few hours.

Music was his latest defense against the numbness. So far, it was working out okay. At the moment, it ranked somewhere below swimming naked in the Pacific Ocean and above alcohol and sex. The trouble was finding it. Oh, there was certainly a lot of music in the world, no doubt about that. But he'd found that ninety-nine percent of it was soulless drivel. Dreadful stuff manufactured by record companies to appeal to the widest possible audience based on a formula that combined a good looking young man or woman with topical lyrics and a canned melody. He swore those recycled tunes actually had a tinny sound. He couldn't stand the banal nature of this 'song in a can' genre. Honestly, there was enough of it out there that he'd seriously considered giving up the whole enterprise.

But that one percent, though. That one percent made slogging through the rest of the dross worthwhile. Music in that one percent could lift a person up, could give one flight. Even when it was breathtakingly sad, it made one feel less lonely, because the listener shared the sadness with the composer of the song. Even if you listened to it by yourself, music connected a person to humanity through those shared notes. Most importantly, it made one feel.

That was what he needed, above all things. It had been five years since he'd lost Angela and Charlotte. Five years since the numbness had infected him. Five years since he'd lost the ability to feel.

He still remembered every detail of that day with sickening clarity. The silk of his tie sliding through his fingers as he got ready for the show. The taste of Angela's cherry lip gloss when she kissed him goodbye. The hot lights of the studio. The confidence, almost bordering on euphoria, when he hooked the audience, drew them into a reality of his own making. The satisfaction of bringing it all home with a big finish. He remembered the drive back, made in half the time because one of his clients had given him a Maserati as a thank you gift and what did he care about speed limits? He could con or hypnotize himself out of most anything, he was that good.

The house had been quiet when he got home, but it was late and that wasn't unusual. He'd been hoping to make it back before Angela went to bed, but the house was dark and he went upstairs, looking forward to crawling into bed with her.

He remembered the pit of dread that opened up in his stomach when he read the note, when he'd processed its meaning. He seized the handle to the bedroom in a panic, burst into the room, desperate to get to his wife, to assure himself it wasn't true, that this wasn't happening, it wasn't real.

Angela was dead. A man stood over her with a knife, gazing down at her almost lovingly as he wiped the blade clean. He looked up when Patrick entered the room and cocked his head in interest. As though he were not surprised by Patrick's entrance, but merely curious to see his reaction to his evening's work. He wore a mask and hood, but his piercing blue eyes were visible from behind the mask. They tracked Patrick's expressions as the emotions chased across his face, watching him like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen.

Dumb shock. Disbelief. Pain. Above all, black, visceral, soul-crushing pain. All these flitted across Patrick's face as he stared at the lifeless body of his beautiful wife, who would never kiss him with cherry lip gloss again. The weight of the pain threatened to crush his lungs, to paralyze him in that moment for all of time.

Then he looked at the man with the knife and he turned to pure, blinding rage to escape the pain. He flung himself at the man, unarmed, intent on nothing but savaging this man who had destroyed all that was precious to him.

The man in the mask bolted toward the window in an effort to escape, but Patrick seized him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

The man didn't panic. Almost calmly, he raised his knife and sliced a long gash along Patrick's forearm.

Patrick didn't even feel it, at the time. The pain and rage swirling inside him were too great for any physical pain to register in comparison. He wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and slammed his head against the window.

The window cracked satisfyingly when he hit the man's head against it, so he did it again—once, twice. The window shattered. Glass rained down everywhere.

Fear registered in the blue eyes now. Dimly, it dawned on Patrick that these eyes were not accustomed to fear. The man in the mask was stronger than him, a more accomplished fighter. But Patrick had blind rage on his side and the other man hadn't expected to have to fight tonight. Patrick had surprised him.

Determination overshadowed fear and the man drove his knife into Patrick's shoulder. Patrick roared in rage and swatted the knife away as though it were merely an annoyance at the level of a gnat. Pesky, but not worth his attention.

He flung the man to the ground and was on top of him before the man could scramble away or make another move to defend himself. He knelt on the man's chest to prevent him from escaping and placed his fingers around his throat once again. The man struggled, but Patrick held firm, bearing down with his full weight. He tightened his fingers.

It took a terribly long time for the man to stop breathing. Blood dripped down Patrick's arm, making his fingers both sticky and slick against the man's throat, but he didn't let go. He waited until the deed was done. He waited until he was absolutely certain the man was dead before releasing him.

Some of his senses returned to him, and he rushed to Charlotte's room.

He didn't think any words existed sufficient to describe what he felt when he found Charlotte.

She looked peaceful, like she was sleeping. Only the pool of blood spoiled the illusion. Patrick, crying, picked up her hand and kissed the small chubby fingers. He crawled into the twin bed next to her and cradled her small body to him. He rocked back and forth, sobbing horrible, gut-wrenching sobs until his throat was so raw it might have been flayed from the inside out. His lungs felt as though they were full of his own tears, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

He cried a long time. When he had cried all the tears he had left in his body, he felt light-headed, dizzy. He looked down at himself and saw his own blood had mingled with Charlotte's. Dimly, it registered that he was in danger of dying from blood loss.

Relief swept over him. He was dying. Thank God. He wouldn't have to face this after all.

He kissed Charlotte's forehead and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. He clutched her closer to him and closed his eyes, willing the darkness to overtake him. His last thought as he drifted into unconsciousness was that at least he wouldn't have to live without them.

xxx

The trouble was, he hadn't died after all. He woke up in the hospital the next day with bandages on his arms and his life destroyed.

The doctors told him he was lucky. His neighbors had heard the window shatter and called the police right away. The paramedics had found him curled around Charlotte's body fifteen minutes later. They'd rescued him just in time.

He often thought bitterly that if only they'd been a few minutes later, he would have safely escaped the burden of living with this awful weight on his chest, of forcing breath after tedious breath into his lungs every damn day. When things got really bad, he amused himself with thoughts of petty revenge against those well-intentioned neighbors and heroic paramedics. He never went through with any of them, though. It would have been far too much effort to stir himself to exert the energy required to execute any of his schemes. It was easier to pretend to forgive them. To the untrained eye this might have been mistaken for gratitude. He didn't bother to correct anyone on this point. Instead, he turned his face to the wall and didn't speak to anyone for two months.

It wasn't long after that point that the numbness had set in. At the time, he'd greeted the numbness willingly, accepted it eagerly as a welcome respite from the pain. Now, he couldn't get rid of it. It was like a parasite, relentless in its course of destruction. Unless he could find some way to combat it, it was going to destroy its host for good.

xxx

The air crackled and changed as the orchestra tuned itself, distracting him from his reverie. Finally. It was about to start.

The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. The conductor came out on stage to enthusiastic applause. He was a good looking dark haired man about Patrick's own age, resplendent in white tie and tails. He bowed to the audience, then to the concert mistress, his formality a little too studiously gracious for the affected show of humility to ring true. Patrick sized him up at a glance and repressed the urge to roll his eyes. Arrogant prick. He amused himself by wondering how many of the female orchestra members had succumbed to the dubious charms of this wolf in formal clothing. Three, he decided after some consideration. One flute, one clarinet, and one violin. He studied the three women in question. The flute and the violin, he could understand, given their home lives growing up, but the clarinet really ought to have known better.

The conductor tapped his baton against his music stand, and with a grand flourish, the concert began.

The first number was an ensemble piece Patrick had heard many times before. Mozart. Undoubtedly a talented musician, but not one of his favorites. The orchestra performed the piece faultlessly, but Patrick fidgeted with impatience. The performance was adequate, nothing more. Nothing worth writing home about. He forced himself to pay attention, morosely aware that this performance had no chance whatsoever of distracting him from the numbness.

When the first piece was over, Patrick clapped politely along with the rest of the audience and tried not to let boredom drive him from his seat.

There was an excited rustling in the audience as the orchestra paused to prepare for the next piece. The soloist was slated to appear for the next piece and would be featured prominently for the remainder of the concert. There was another hush, then a clamoring of even more enthusiastic applause as the soloist walked onstage.

Patrick sat forward in his chair, eager to get a look at this supposed virtuoso despite himself.

She was a petite woman, but she moved with confidence and grace. Raven hair, swept back in an elegant knot at the back of her neck, set off perfect ivory skin dusted lightly with freckles. Luminous green eyes sparkled more brightly than the brilliant emerald green of her floor length gown.

In a word, she was beautiful.

Patrick slumped back in his chair, disappointed. He should have known it was too good to be true. He'd experienced this phenomenon before. All her supposed brilliance was undoubtedly hyperbole inspired by her extraordinary physical beauty, displaced. Reviewers were easily swayed by a pretty face. Audiences, too, for that matter. He watched the conductor take her hand and make a show of pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her knuckles when she crossed the stage to meet him in the center. Apparently, conductors weren't immune either, he thought with disgust.

There went his evening. He'd been seduced by the prospect of a superior musical experience, and all he was going to get was a bland replaying of classical masterpieces that deserved better than a pale pretender to greatness. Even if she came in an extremely attractive package. He watched her raise her instrument and balance it against one perfectly formed collarbone, poised to begin playing. Well, he wasn't like these fools, waiting breathlessly to be impressed. He wouldn't be taken in by a pretty face.

Then she touched bow to string and everything changed.

From her first notes, he was lost. This was music at its best. Heart-breaking. Soaring. Transcendent. It was as though she hadn't merely studied Tchaikovsky, Brahms, and Bach, but had studied _with_ them, had received instruction directly from the composers as to how best to bring their greatest works to life. As though she'd known each of these storied men intimately, had experienced every rise and fall of their emotions in concert with them when they were living. As though she might have held their hands through their moments of darkest despair, smiled and celebrated with them in moments of purest happiness.

Her slender fingers flew up and down the strings like a bird tirelessly flitting up and down a tree branch. Her right arm wielded the bow with the authority of Diana wielding her own. This bow, though, was designed not to hunt and kill, but to create, to evoke.

He stared, amazed at how deeply he'd misjudged her. This woman was not just a pretty face. She knew heartbreak and pain. She knew joy and compassion. Her entire body swayed with the music as if she were possessed by it, or perhaps it by her. Above all, this woman knew passion. She knew what it was to feel.

He wanted to weep when she played Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor. He was dumbstruck as she played Paganini's Caprice No. 24. She executed the complicated piece flawlessly, at times with playful teasing, at others with darkest gravity. He listened raptly as she finished with Bach, the pure clear notes striking echoing chords inside him with every stroke of the bow against string.

He didn't want this moment to end. He felt this with a desperation he hadn't experienced in some time. He was distressed when the conductor announced the final piece, anxious when she stepped offstage. Relieved when she reappeared for an encore. When she finished, the audience broke into thunderous applause, surging to their feet in a single unified wave for a standing ovation.

Patrick did not stand. He did not applaud. He just sat there, transfixed.

She smiled shyly, bowed with the rest of the orchestra, and left the stage once again.

The audience broke into delighted chatter. The lights came back on. People started to get up out of their seats, to gather their coats. They filed out of their rows and up the aisles towards the exits until the theater was virtually empty.

Patrick remained, his eyes still fixed on the stage.

He took a deep breath. One thing was certain.

Teresa Lisbon was definitely all she was cracked up to be.

His heart was racing. He touched his fingertips to his chest wonderingly, sliding them beneath his vest to rest against his breastbone, surprised by the unexpected sensation of his heart beating wildly against his ribcage.

That settled it.

He had to meet her.


	2. Chapter 2

Conning his way into the after-party was almost laughably easy. He befriended two lovely season-ticket holders with VIP access who were only too happy to allow him to escort them into the event. He walked in with a woman on each arm, both pleased as punch to have such a handsome young man to show off to their friends. The first one, Mrs. Carter, told him he reminded her of her grandson. The second, Mrs. Abramson, gave him a lascivious wink and told him he reminded her of her first husband.

His eyes found her right away. A flock of admirers was grouped around her, but she stood out from the crowd, the satin of her emerald gown eye-catchingly bright among all the black and white that dominated the attire of the other party goers. He watched her, filing away small observations. She wore no jewelry but a simple gold cross around her neck. It had sentimental value for her—perhaps a gift from a deceased relative? Someone close to her, that was certain. She disliked being the center of attention, but she hid her discomfort well. She smiled and joked, putting the other guests at their ease. She told a story, and the admirers hung on every word. Despite her reluctance to stay in the spotlight after the show had ended, she commanded attention and held it.

She stopped a passing waiter with a hand on his sleeve. She ignored the tray of champagne flutes the young man carried. She leaned in and asked him a question under her breath, concealing the nature of her inquiry from those surrounding her as the waiter doled out glasses of champagne. Patrick watched as the young man smiled and whispered in her ear, in turn.

Whatever he said, she wasn't happy about it. She made a face and he laughed. A gentleman standing next to her took a glass of champagne from the tray and handed it to her. She looked down at the glass in her hand as though surprised to see it there. She held it loosely in her hand and rejoined the conversation around her. A moment later, she absently took a sip of the champagne. She wrinkled her nose before she could stop herself.

Patrick found himself smiling at the sight. When he realized he was smiling foolishly at a woman half a room away, he paused in wonder. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled without it being a specifically calculated action designed to fool those around him into believing he was a fully functioning member of the human race. He gazed at her, amazed that a complete stranger had the capacity to elicit such a response from him. Even if she did scrunch up her nose in a way that some people might say was adorable.

He turned back to his companions, a little discomfited by the thought. But a moment later, when the waiter she'd spoken to a few minutes earlier passed by with a fresh tray of champagne, Patrick caught the young man by the arm.

The waiter looked at him quizzically. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes. That woman in the green dress," Patrick said, nodding in her direction as the young man handed out more champagne. "You spoke to her a few moments ago. What did she say to you?"

The waiter followed his gaze. "Teresa? She wanted to know the score of the Cubs game."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her they were down seven to three in the bottom of the ninth."

"She didn't look too happy about that."

"She's from Chicago. What'd you expect?"

"You know her?"

"Only a little. When she comes to these things, she's always stuck talking so some bigwig or another and can't get away to check on the games. Me 'n some of the guys, we keep her updated on the sports scores."

"That's good of you."

He shrugged again. "I work these events pretty often. A lot of the people at these things, they look right through you if you have a serving tray in your hand. She's not like that."

"What is she like, then?" Patrick asked curiously.

He shrugged. "She's nice."

"Nice," Patrick repeated, staring at her again.

"Yeah. Nice. Kind of sarcastic, though."

"Interesting." Patrick turned his attention back to his informant. "What's your name?"

"James."

"Thank you, James," Patrick said, tipping him lavishly. "This has been most enlightening."

James finished handing out champagne glasses and returned to the bar to exchange his tray of empty glasses for full ones. Patrick, for his part, turned his attention back to the group he was with, attempting to maintain the illusion he was fully engaged in their conversation. In truth, his attention was divided. He kept an eye on Teresa Lisbon the whole time.

He filed away observations about her mannerisms, her bearing, cataloguing her reactions to those around her and theirs to her.

A bony finger jabbed him sharply in the ribs, jostling him from his reverie. He winced and turned his attention to the source of the interruption.

"You just going to stand there all night?" Mrs. Abramson demanded.

Patrick blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"

"Are you going to just stand there all night?" she repeated. "Or are you going to go talk to her?"

Patrick feigned innocence. "Talk to who?"

"I may be old, but I'm not that old, young man," Mrs. Abramson said severely. "I'm talking about that young woman you've been staring at ever since we walked in here."

"I haven't been staring," Patrick protested feebly and untruthfully.

Mrs. Abramson wasn't buying it. "You haven't taken your eyes off her all night."

Patrick let his gaze drift back over to the intriguing figure of Teresa Lisbon. "You think I should talk to her, huh?"

"Absolutely," Mrs. Abramson said firmly.

He took a sip of his champagne. "All in due time."

"What the hell does that mean? What are you waiting for?" Mrs. Abramson demanded.

"I can't just walk up to her and try to chat her up," he protested.

"Oh, yes, you can," Mrs. Abramson insisted.

"The situation requires a certain finesse."

"Finesse," Mrs. Abramson said dismissively. "You don't need some smooth line, not looking the way you do. Just flash that smile of yours at her and she'll be putty in your hands."

He shook his head. "That won't work on her."

"Well, then, what do you intend to do about it?" Mrs. Abramson huffed in annoyance.

He smiled. "Don't worry. I have a plan."

Xxx

Shortly thereafter, Patrick decided it was time to put his plan into action.

First, he made it his business to drop a gentle hint to the event organizer about the possibility of the chair of the fundraising committee making some kind of speech or another. The guests probably expected that kind of thing, and wouldn't it be better to do it before they got too drunk to sign their checks legibly? He left the woman in charge to consider the question and headed to the bar to execute the next step in his plan.

He exchanged his half full glass of champagne for two bottles of water. Then he waited.

Once the committee chair was a few minutes into his speech, Patrick made his move.

She stood a little to the edge of her group now, listening to the speech politely. He was about to change all that. He sidled up alongside her, leaned in, and murmured, "Trade ya."

She turned to look at him. "Excuse me?" she whispered, raising her emerald eyes to his.

Patrick felt as though a tidal wave had just slammed into him. A green tidal wave. He blinked. Those eyes were even more captivating up close.

He collected himself and covered his momentary lapse with a roguish grin. He extended a water bottle towards her. "I'll trade you," he repeated, nodding to her champagne.

She looked down at the water in his hand. "You want me to trade you a glass of champagne for a bottle of water?"

"That's right."

She raised her eyebrows. "You know they give this stuff out for free at these things, right?"

"True, but that's hardly the point."

"What is the point?"

"The point is, you're extremely thirsty."

She lifted her glass. "I have a drink right here."

He shook his head. "No good. The champagne is only making you thirstier."

"How do you know that?" she asked, startled.

"I saw you take a sip a minute ago and you made a face."

"I made a face?" she repeated.

"Yes. It was clearly a classic, 'I'm dying of thirst and the beverage in my hand isn't getting the job done' face."

"Oh, really?" she said, amused. "How did you even know I was thirsty in the first place?"

"You're always thirsty after a performance. The lights on stage are hot, and making extraordinary music is more strenuous than it looks. I bet you didn't have a chance to take a breath after the performance before the music director hustled you out here to make nice with the donors. You haven't been able to get to the bar to ask for a glass of water because you've been stuck over here entertaining your many admirers. I'm sure James would have brought you one, if you'd asked, but you squandered the one opportunity you've had to ask about the score to the Cubs game instead, and then your attention was demanded elsewhere. Every time you try to escape, someone new claims your attention. You're far too kind and polite to blow them off for the simple imperative of assuaging your own thirst, so here you are, thoroughly parched with nothing but a glass of champagne to show for all your trouble." He grinned at her. "How am I doing so far?"

"How the hell do you know all that?" she demanded. "Don't try to tell me you're a psychic or something."

His grin widened. "Of course not. Just paying attention."

"Seriously, how'd you know about the Cubs thing?" she asked suspiciously.

"Pretty obvious, isn't it?" Patrick said. "Bribery, pure and simple."

"You bribed James?" she said, aghast. "Why?"

"It's only sensible to arm oneself with the best available intelligence when pursuing one's objectives," he informed her.

She raised an eyebrow. "And what objective required the intelligence that I'm a Cubs fan?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to meet you."

She faltered. "You wanted to meet me?"

He kept his gaze fixed steadily on hers. "Yes."

She flushed. "So the water…?"

He smiled at her. "Approaching you was a tricky proposition. I figured my chances of success would be improved if I had some tangible benefit to offer you."

"Success at what?" she asked, still wary.

He flashed a charming grin at her. "Getting you to talk to me, of course."

"Do you always have such complicated schemes for such simple objectives?" she asked, exasperated.

"Ah, you are mistaken, my dear. This wasn't a simple objective at all. In fact, if I may say so, it required more cunning than I've bothered to expend in quite some time."

She blew out an incredulous laugh. "Yeah, right."

"You don't believe me?"

She shook her head. "Sounds like you're overcomplicating things."

"No. Believe me, the cunning scheme was absolutely necessary."

She shook her head. "Just to introduce yourself to someone? I don't buy it."

"Not to introduce myself to _someone_ ," he corrected her. "To introduce myself to _you._ "

She threw him a skeptical look that told him that despite her crowd of admirers, she was largely oblivious to the power of her own charms.

Which of course made her that much more charming.

"Think about it," he continued. "I was in a difficult position. I don't know anyone here, so I couldn't presume on an acquaintance for an introduction. You were quite literally the star of the show, so you were bound to have a long line of people clamoring for your attention after the performance. Attempting to charm you wouldn't work, for obvious reasons, so I had to come up with an alternative strategy to win the favor of your attention."

"Obvious reasons?" she echoed. "What reasons would those be, exactly?"

He gestured vaguely at her with the bottle in his hand. "You're talented and beautiful. An enticing combination. You undoubtedly have to endure men constantly attempting to charm you into bed on the basis of those qualities alone, without ever bothering to learn anything else about you. I imagine it gets tiresome, dealing with that all the time. You're too practical to be taken in by such attentions, so charm is not a viable strategy for engagement with you."

"I may not be entirely immune," she muttered under her breath. Aloud, she said, "If I'm so much work, why were you so determined to meet me in the first place?"

"Because I've never heard anyone play the violin like you just did," he said. "I'm not easily impressed. But tonight… I was more than impressed. The music you created was extraordinary."

"I think the composers deserve most of the credit," she demurred.

"Only some," he contradicted. "You were the one who brought the pieces to life. I've heard those pieces played a hundred times before and never felt like this. Your performance moved me. Believe me, that's not easy to do. I wanted to tell you personally how much your performance meant to me."

She stared at him, clearly at a loss. "Oh—just give me the damn water, then," she huffed.

He took her champagne glass from her and handed over the bottle of water. He deposited the half full glass of champagne on the tray of a passing waiter, then turned his attention back to her.

She raised the bottle to her lips and drained it in under ten seconds.

When she finished, she looked at the bottle in her hand as though surprised to find it empty already. Patrick took it from her wordlessly and handed her the second bottle.

She accepted it gratefully. She twisted the top off and took another sip. This time, she drank at a more sedate pace. She rewarded him for his trouble with a smile. "I guess I really needed that," she said ruefully. "Thank you."

He found it difficult to look away from that smile. It was most captivating. "You're welcome."

"And, uh, thank you for what you said. Before," she said, not meeting his eyes. "That was very kind of you."

"It wasn't kind," he responded. "It was the truth."

She raised her eyes to meet his. "Well, thank you for saying it."

He smiled at her. "The pleasure was entirely mine."

"Teresa Lisbon," she introduced herself.

"Patrick Jane," he returned.

"Nice to meet you," she said, taking another sip of her water.

He watched her mouth. Having earned one smile, he discovered a desperate urge to earn another. He opened his mouth to deliver a clever observation designed to win the coveted reward, but before he'd fully formulated the thought, an unwelcome interruption derailed it.

"Teresa," boomed a rich tenor voice. "There you are."

Teresa turned towards the voice. It was the conductor. The serpent in white tie and tails. She plastered a polite smile on her face. "Michael," she greeted him.

She couldn't stand the man, Patrick realized gleefully.

Michael leaned in and kissed her cheek. Teresa controlled the urge to flinch away, but Patrick spotted the instinct.

 _Big mistake, Michael,_ he thought. This woman obviously didn't appreciate having her personal space invaded by overly familiar colleagues.

"Excellent performance tonight," Michael said, fixing his eyes on hers with what Patrick considered an unnecessary degree of intensity.

"You too," Teresa said smoothly.

Oh, yeah. He had definitely propositioned her at least once, Patrick observed. Likely more. But apparently Michael was one of those men who only wanted something more when he couldn't have it, because he clearly hadn't given up.

Patrick could have told him he was wasting his time. Every fiber of her being was telegraphing her distaste for the man.

 _Keep dreaming, buddy_ , Patrick thought. _She's already shot you down at least twice. It's not likely she's going to suddenly change her mind based on a few sweet nothings, no matter how much you wish it._

Michael moved to place his hand at the small of her back, but Teresa anticipated the movement. She shifted closer to Patrick in a bid for escape, subtly enough that it wasn't obvious that her primary motive for the move was to avoid the other man's touch.

He wondered briefly why she hadn't reported Michael the sleaze bag for sexual harassment, but then dismissed the thought. Teresa didn't need bureaucracy intervening – she could take care of herself. She could turn this guy into a box of toothpicks if he annoyed her too badly.

Patrick took advantage of her newfound proximity to breathe in her scent. She smelled amazing – spicy. Cinnamon, he guessed. He inhaled deeply.

"Michael, have you met Patrick Jane?" Teresa asked.

"No, I don't believe we've met," Michael said, clearly uninterested. He turned his attention back to Teresa after the briefest flick of his eyes in Patrick's direction. "Are you all ready for your trip, Teresa?"

"All packed," she confirmed.

"When's your flight?" Michael asked.

"Tomorrow morning."

"Paris for three months," Michael commented. "Nice work if you can get it, huh?"

Patrick started. She was leaving?

Of course, her leaving didn't affect him, he reminded himself. He'd just met the woman, for God's sake. It was just—well, it was a shame that he wouldn't have the opportunity to hear her play again. He'd only just discovered the presence of this extraordinary talent in his own city. Surely that was the cause of the sudden pang in his chest at this news.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Teresa answered. "It's such a beautiful city."

"Say hello to those French ballerinas for me," Michael said with a leer.

"If I come across any, I'll be sure to pass on your regards," Teresa answered dryly.

Michael's eyes strayed across the room. "Speaking of French beauties, I see the delectable Mademoiselle Altier over there. If you'll excuse me, I really ought to say hello."

"Certainly," Teresa said graciously.

Michael left them, much to Patrick's satisfaction.

Teresa exhaled a tiny sigh of relief.

"What a blowhard," Patrick said mildly.

She let out a startled laugh. "He is a bit of a blowhard, now that you mention it. Not many people have the guts to point that out."

"How do you put up with him?"

"Michael's harmless," Teresa said dismissively. "He's an ass, but he's a good conductor."

"If you say so," Patrick said with a shrug. "So… Paris, huh?"

"Yep," she confirmed.

"What happens after Paris?" Patrick asked, endeavoring to keep his tone casual.

"I'll be back here for the fall season," she answered. "I signed a five year contract with SFS. I've only been with them since September. They're just loaning me out for the summer."

He didn't know why he should feel so relieved at that. Suddenly he found it much easier to breathe.

He made a mental note to purchase season tickets next year. "And how do you feel about being loaned out?"

She shrugged. "I'm used to it. It's pretty normal in the music world."

"You must travel a lot."

"Yes," she agreed. "I'm very lucky. I've had the opportunity to visit some amazing places. But to be honest, I'm glad to have this contract with SFS as an excuse to stay put for the most part. Five years will be the longest I've stayed in one place since I was a kid."

"But it sounds like you'll still be traveling over the summers, won't you?"

"Probably," she said ruefully. "Sometimes I think about taking a summer off, but I don't know, somehow I never seem to get around to it."

"That's because you're a workaholic," Patrick told her.

"Excuse me?" she said, laughing a little at his presumption.

"You're afraid you wouldn't know what to do with yourself. That's why you've never taken the summer off."

"Okay, seriously, how the hell do you know stuff like that?"

"Cold reading," he replied.

"Cold reading?" she repeated. "How does that work?"

"It's nothing complicated. It's just making educated guesses based on observations of people's reactions and behavior."

She shook her head. "You're a hell of a guesser."

"It's always been a talent of mine," he agreed. "For example, I bet your idea of taking the summer off still involves working at least part of the time."

"Well, yeah," she admitted. "I thought could do some teaching. And I'd still have to rehearse every day, obviously. And I'd probably end up doing a few concerts here and there."

He arched a brow. "So what part of that exactly is 'taking the summer off?'"

"I'd be in one place," she sighed. He watched her mouth form an unconscious and extremely attractive pout. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from it. "And I wouldn't have to stay up late all the time going to things like this."

"You could stay up late eating ice cream and watching old movies, instead," he said, guessing her preferred past times.

She made a face. "I guess that makes me pretty boring, huh?"

"No," he said, still transfixed. "I find it difficult to believe that word could be applied to you in any circumstances."

"Even if all I want to do is stay home when most people dream of the opportunities I've had to travel the world?"

He considered his answer. "I think to a traveler, a peaceful home is the most treasured dream."

Their eyes met again, but before she could respond, they were interrupted again.

"Oh, Teresa, thank God," a tall woman with light brown hair sighed, appearing at Teresa's elbow. "I need you to hide me from Tork."

Teresa chuckled, a delightful low, throaty laugh that Patrick felt like a jolt to the stomach. "Poor Tork," she said, her eyes teasing and mischievous. "He's really not that bad, you know."

He felt his heart rate tick up a notch at the discovery that she had a mischievous side.

The other woman glared at Teresa. "I'm half a foot taller than him."

"Some guys like taller women," Teresa said.

"Apparently so," the woman muttered. "The height difference is the least of my worries. If it were just that, I'd be able to handle it. But he's so damn earnest and hopeful. He brought me _daisies._ "

She stopped, appearing to take note of Patrick for the first time. "Hello," she said. "Who are you?"

"Kim, this is Patrick Jane," Teresa said. "Patrick, Kim Fischer. She plays in the orchestra with me. First cello."

"Nice to meet you," Patrick said politely.

"You, too," Kim said, sizing him up. She smirked at Teresa. "I can see you're having a much better night than I am, Teresa."

Teresa blushed. "Oh, hush."

"So," Patrick said, tearing his eyes from Teresa's blush with some difficulty. "Who's Tork?"

"Kim's not-so-secret admirer," Teresa answered. "We played a benefit concert at a hospital about a month ago and that's where we met him. Tork is a pediatric surgeon there. He met Kim at the after party and developed a bit of a crush on her."

"He's a doctor?" Patrick asked.

"Yes," Kim said sourly. "I'm sure my mother would be very pleased."

Patrick shook his head. "You'd do well to steer clear of him, then. Never trust a doctor, that's my motto. Frauds in white coats, the lot of them."

"Really," Kim said, amused. "And what is it that you do, exactly?"

"Oh, I'm a con man." He flashed his most charming grin. "Retired, of course. Now I'm a member of the idle rich. Living off the proceeds of my ill-gotten gains."

"A con man?" Kim repeated. "What kind of con man? Land deals in Florida, that kind of thing?"

"That's never been my particular gambit," Patrick said. "But if you're interested in that sort of thing, I have a few acquaintances who would be happy to fleece you for all you're worth at your earliest convenience."

She laughed. "I think I'll pass, thanks."

Teresa raised her eyebrows at him. "So what is your gambit, exactly?"

"Simple trickery, for the most part," he said. "A little charm thrown in for good measure. That's it, really."

"Doesn't sound like much," she said dubiously.

He shrugged. "That's how I got into the party tonight."

"You crashed the party?" Teresa said, exasperated.

"Believe me, I had good reason," he answered. "Tabitha and Ruth were only too pleased to assist me."

"Tabitha and Ruth?" Teresa repeated.

"My dates." He sought out the eyes of the ladies in question and winked at them.

They both waved, blushing and smiling like schoolgirls. Then they bent their heads together to talk. Probably to discuss what an incorrigible rapscallion he was. Well, it was true. He _was_ an incorrigible rapscallion.

Teresa looked like she was fighting laughter. "Looks like you have your hands full with those two."

"Undoubtedly," Patrick agreed. "What mere mortal man could aspire to be worthy of such jewels?"

"You didn't become a member of the idle rich by crashing parties," Kim said.

"You'd be surprised," he told her.

"Come on, spill," she persisted. "What's your deal? Did you really used to be a con man?"

"Sadly, yes. I used to pretend to be a psychic for a living."

"Seriously?" Kim said, dumbfounded. "You got rich doing that?"

He shrugged. "I was very good at it."

"Huh," Kim said, clearly still skeptical.

"Take you, for example," Patrick said. "You're strong, confident. Men should be lining up to take you out. But you come off as brusque, unapproachable. You wish you could change that about yourself, but you're more shy than you let on." He leaned closer to her. "You want my advice?"

She looked wary. "Okay, I'll bite. What's your advice?"

"Tomorrow, when you're at the gym and you see that guy you've been eyeing there for the past few weeks, smile at him."

"Smile at him?" Kim repeated. "That's your great advice?"

He smiled at her. "Try it."

"Maybe," she said doubtfully.

"I'll bet you five bucks that if you do, by this time tomorrow, you'll have a date for next Friday night," he said confidently.

"You're on," Kim said.

Yet another well-wisher came to congratulate Teresa on her performance, distracting her from Patrick's conversation with Kim.

Kim glanced at Teresa and lowered her voice. "Be careful with my friend, here."

"What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.

She glanced at Teresa. "Teresa is wonderful. Smart. Funny. Kind. She's an amazing friend. But she doesn't do commitment. A word to the wise—don't get too invested."

Patrick went very still. "I just met her."

"I know. And you're already looking at her like the sun rises and sets by her."

He was dumbfounded. Clearly, she'd gotten the wrong end of the stick. "I'm not—I'm really not looking for anything like that right now," he said, unease pricking at his skin.

She shot him a sympathetic look. "That's too bad. Because it looks an awful lot to me like you found it anyway."

Patrick frowned. He thought he'd played the part of the charming charlatan rather well. What on earth had given Kim the idea that he had the slightest interest in commitment?

Kim drained her champagne glass. "I'm going to head home," she announced. "I've had enough fun for one night."

She reached out to shake his hand. "It's been very… interesting, meeting you."

He returned the handshake. "Likewise."

She went to Teresa and touched her on the arm to regain her attention. Teresa turned, and the well-wisher drifted away to greet someone else. "I'm heading out," Kim told her.

"Are you?" Teresa said, her voice colored with disappointment and a touch of envy.

"Yeah. If I'm going to entice some poor guy to hit on me at the gym tomorrow, I guess I'd better get my beauty sleep," Kim said dryly. "Have a great trip."

"Thanks. You're still planning to visit me in August, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Kim confirmed. "I'll email you, okay?"

"Sounds good."

The two women said their good-byes and Kim slipped away in the crowd.

"She seems nice," Patrick commented.

"Kim? Yes, she is. She's been a good friend to me."

"Have you known her long?"

Teresa shook her head. "Just since the fall, when I started here."

"Really?" Patrick said, surprised. "I would have guessed you'd known her longer. You seem very comfortable with each other."

She shrugged. "Some people are like that. Even when you've just met them, you still feel like you've known them forever. You know?"

Patrick looked into her eyes again. "Yes. I know what you mean."

Another man joined them then, appearing at Teresa's elbow so silently Patrick almost started in surprise. Almost.

"Lisbon," the man greeted her, unsmiling.

Her face lit up. "Cho!" she said in genuine pleasure. She kissed him on the cheek. "You made it!"

"Yeah," Cho said tersely. He looked at Patrick. "Who are you?"

"Patrick Jane," Patrick said, tamping down the flare of jealousy in his chest and trying to get a read on the dynamic between them. They were close, that much was obvious. But not a romantic relationship, he thought. Kindred spirits, perhaps. More like siblings than lovers.

"Patrick, this is Kimball Cho," Teresa introduced him. "Cho works for a private security firm based in Oakland."

"Nice to meet you," Patrick said.

Cho apparently wasn't inclined to say the same. "Uh-huh," he said, flicking his eyes at Patrick briefly before turning his attention to Teresa. "Great performance tonight."

"Thanks, Cho," she said. "I'm really glad you could come."

He shrugged. "Job got cancelled, so thought I'd stop by."

"I'm glad you did," she said. "I would have been sad to leave for three months without having a chance to say good-bye."

"Yeah," Cho said, face expressionless. "Me, too."

Another man ambled up to them, a hulking figure of a fellow carrying a heaping plate of hors d'oeuvres and making them disappear at an alarming rate. "Hey, Lisbon," he said amiably, his mouth full of crab puff.

Cho looked pained. "Lisbon, you remember Rigsby, don't you?"

"Of course," Teresa said. "How are you, Rigsby?"

"Good," Rigsby said around another mouthful of crab puff. "This food's 'mazing."

"Glad you're enjoying it," Teresa said with a laugh. "I'll pass along your compliments to the catering staff."

"Fanks," Rigsby said around his crab puff. He nudged Cho with one elbow. "Did you ask her yet?" he said in a clearly audible whisper.

Teresa raised an eyebrow. "Ask me what?"

Cho grimaced. "He wants me to ask you to introduce him to someone."

"Really?" Teresa said curiously. "Who?"

Patrick, who had been watching Rigsby's eyes dart across the room in a very specific direction, answered. "The flautist, isn't it?" he guessed. "The red-head."

"Grace?" Teresa asked. "Sure. I can introduce you to her, if you'd like."

Rigsby beamed. "Awesome."

Patrick shook his head. "Bad idea."

"What?" Rigsby said, crestfallen. "Why?"

"Introductions through a third party are a dime a dozen at things like this," Patrick said dismissively. "You want her to remember you tomorrow, don't you? You want to stand out in her mind."

Rigsby flushed. "Well…yeah."

"So introduce yourself. Makes a stronger first impression."

"Introduce myself how?" Rigsby asked.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Seduction, of course."

"Seduction?" Rigsby repeated. "That's not really my strong suit."

"It's very simple. What are you offering a woman when you seduce her?"

"Uh…" Rigsby said, cutting his eyes to Teresa and blushing, clearly uncomfortable holding this conversation in mixed company.

"Love and affection," Patrick informed him. "Who doesn't want love and affection?"

"Love and affection," Rigsby repeated doubtfully. "That's it?"

"Hey, that's nothing to sneeze at, if you can manage it," Patrick said.

Rigsby still looked dubious.

"If you're nervous, I'll give you a head start," Patrick offered.

"A head start?" Cho said. "At what?"

"At winning her heart," Patrick said. He looked at Rigsby. "What do you say? You interested?"

Rigsby swallowed. "I guess, yeah. What have I got to lose, right?"

"Your heart, your dignity… your sense of self-worth as a man," Cho suggested.

"Hush," Teresa said. "I think you should go for it, Rigsby. She broke up with someone recently, but I think she might be ready to get back out there again. And she likes tall guys."

Rigsby drew himself up to his full height. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Teresa confirmed.

"Okay, I'll do it," Rigsby decided. He turned to Patrick. "Okay, what's the hint?"

Patrick leaned close to him and spoke into his ear in a low voice.

Rigsby drew back, giving him a skeptical look.

"Trust me," Patrick said.

Rigsby sighed. He fixed his gaze on the red-head across the room. "Here goes," he said, squaring his shoulders.

Patrick clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get her, killer."

Rigsby tensed his jaw and didn't answer. He handed his plate to Cho and set off determinedly through the crowd. Cho eyed the plate of leftovers with distaste and disposed of it as quickly as possible.

"What'd you tell him?" Teresa asked Patrick curiously.

"I gave him a foolproof opening line," Patrick told her. "He can't miss."

"What kind of line?" Teresa asked, amused.

"One tailor-made with her specifically in mind."

"But you don't even know her," Teresa protested.

"Meh," Patrick said. "I know enough."

Cho raised his eyebrows. "This a line you've already tried out on Lisbon? Is that why you don't want to tell her?"

Patrick shook his head. "No, that line wouldn't work on Teresa."

"Why's that?" Cho asked.

"Well, Teresa doesn't get excited about onion rings, for one thing," Patrick said mysteriously. "She's more of a pizza and red wine kind of woman."

"How do you know?" Cho demanded. "Didn't you just meet her?"

"That's right."

Cho's eyes narrowed. "You some kind of stalker?"

"No," Patrick answered, noting the serious line of tension along the other man's heavily muscled shoulders. "Just a good guesser."

Cho stepped forward, a hint of menace clear in his eyes despite his impassive expression. "She's had to deal with creeps before. You one of them?"

Teresa put a restraining hand on his arm. "Relax, Kimball. He's not like Volker."

Cho's jaw clenched. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Teresa said firmly.

Cho didn't budge. "How do you know?"

She shrugged. "I can tell, that's all."

"You really think you can trust him?" Cho asked, still regarding Patrick suspiciously.

Teresa glanced at Patrick. "I'm pretty sure he's not to be trusted at all, actually. But I don't believe he intends to hurt me."

Patrick felt sick to his stomach. "Who's Volker?"

"Tommy Volker," Cho informed him, stone-faced. "Rich guy who saw her perform and started following her around. Leaving her creepy notes. Waiting for her at her house at the end of the night."

"How awful," Patrick said, appalled. "What happened to him?"

"He broke into her house. Tried to put his hands on her," Cho said, voice tight. Teresa put a soothing hand on his arm and he relaxed a degree or two.

"And?" Patrick said, glancing at Teresa.

"Lisbon broke his jaw," Cho said, a hint of pride evident in his voice despite the tension still strung across his shoulders.

"Good for you," Patrick said approvingly. "I hope he's rotting in jail somewhere."

"He is," Teresa said. "Turns out, he's a pretty bad guy. Mixed up in rumors of genocide in a village in South America. The police couldn't find any proof of that, but eventually they were able to tie him to several murders here in California."

"Thanks to Lisbon," Cho said. "She worked with the police to get him to expose himself."

"A woman of many talents," Patrick said admiringly.

Cho scowled at him. "He had to be hospitalized. Jaw wired shut. For all I know, he's still drinking his meals through a straw."

"Ah, in case you're interested, I happen to believe that a man has no right to lay a finger on a woman unless her consent has enthusiastically been secured beforehand," Patrick said, resisting the urge to take a step back.

"Good," Cho said. He looked at Lisbon. "I should have been there," he said gruffly.

Teresa sighed. "We've been over this a thousand times. You and Rigsby did me a favor looking out for me those couple months, but you couldn't be there twenty-four seven. Volker waited to make his move until after you left on purpose."

"Still," Cho grumbled.

"Hush," Teresa said firmly. "This is my last night here for three months. I won't have you ruining it with misplaced guilt. We're all safe and Volker's in prison, so everything's turned out just as it should, hasn't it?"

"I guess," Cho said grudgingly. He glared at Patrick. "Just remember what I said about the broken jaw."

"Duly noted," Patrick said, aware that if Cho became convinced that he posed even a hint of a threat to Teresa, the stocky man wouldn't wait for her to break his jaw. He'd do it himself.

Cho turned back to Teresa. "I've got to go," he told her. "Early morning tomorrow. I just wanted to say good-bye before you left."

She gave him a hug. "Thanks for stopping by."

"I'll see you in the fall," he said when she'd released him. "We'll go see the Giants when you get back. My treat. It'll be your welcome home present."

She smiled at him, happy and warm. "That would be great. Take care, Cho."

He jerked his head in acknowledgment. "See you," he said to Teresa. He ignored Patrick.

"Nice meeting you!" Patrick called as he walked away. Cho didn't respond. Then again, Patrick hadn't really expected him to.

"Sorry about that," Teresa said. "Cho's been a little overprotective since that whole thing with Volker went down."

"Don't worry about it. He obviously cares for you a great deal."

Her expression softened. "He's a good friend."

"How do you know each other?" Patrick asked curiously. "He doesn't seem like he quite fits the bill for classical music groupie."

"Cho and I have known each other forever," Teresa told him. "When I was twenty-two, I did a fellowship out here for a year. I didn't know anybody out here so I joined a rec softball league. Cho was the catcher and I was the second baseman. We hit it off right away and became good friends. We kept in touch when I moved away, and he always let me stay with him when I was in town for a concert. It's been great to reconnect with him since moving back here."

"And Rigsby? He's Cho's partner, correct? At the private security firm you mentioned."

Her jaw dropped. "How did you know that?"

He flashed her a smile. "Just another good guess. Have you known Rigsby a long time, too?"

"No, I only met him this year," she said. "He's nice. A good guy."

He wanted to ask more. He wanted to hear more about her life and the people in it, but before he could, they were interrupted again, this time by the music director. He wanted to introduce his star to several potential fat cat donors. Patrick bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the man. He listened to him coax Teresa away and controlled the urge to hypnotize him into thinking a barrel of live frogs had been released into the room.

Teresa turned to him apologetically. "Sorry, I've got to go make nice with the donors. It was nice talking with you, Patrick."

Patrick's face fell before he could put any thought into masking his reaction. He hastily schooled his features into a neutral expression, hoping she hadn't seen how crushed he was to hear he would be deprived of her conversation so abruptly. He'd been hoping to talk to her longer.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Teresa."

She looked as though she would have liked to say something more, but the music director, eyes fixed on the group of donors, pulled her away impatiently.

Patrick watched her walk away, feeling unaccountably bereft.

He returned to Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Abramson, intent on thanking them for their kindness before taking his leave. He shook his head at himself, cursing himself for a fool. He'd gotten what he'd come for, hadn't he? He'd spoken to her. Told her how much her music meant to him. That was all he'd wanted to do. Just to meet her. There was no reason he should feel this unpleasant ache in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. He was being ridiculous. He would stay a few more minutes, for appearance's sake, and then he would leave.

He spoke to Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Abramson, intending to say his good-byes and leave directly. But he didn't leave. He lingered. His gaze kept going back to Teresa.

She smiled and nodded to the fat cats politely, surreptitiously glancing at her watch every couple of minutes. She looked bored out of her mind. Also, there was obviously some place she'd rather be.

Well, that was it, he decided. Clearly, she needed him to rescue her.


	3. Chapter 3

She'd finished the second bottle of water and now held the empty bottle in her hand.

He snagged another glass of champagne and took it to her. "Ah, there you are, darling," he said breezily, handing her the glass of champagne. She looked at him sharply, but didn't call him out on his pretense. He took the empty bottle from her and smoothly fobbed it off to a passing waiter. He smiled a charming smile at the fat cats. "You don't mind if I borrow her for one moment, do you?"

If they minded, they were too gracious to show it.

He beckoned for Teresa to follow him to a spot just out of earshot of the music director and his gang of rich marks. She followed him, looking torn between amusement and annoyance.

"What the hell was that?" she hissed.

"Never mind that," he said impatiently. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "Uh…"

"Not like that," he said hastily. "I mean, there's somewhere you want to go right now, right? Some place or event somewhere?"

"How did you—?"

"You keep looking at your watch. At first I thought it was just because you were bored out of your mind and were longing to go home, but I was wrong. You're bored out of your mind and want to go somewhere else."

"Well… yes," she admitted. "But it doesn't matter what I want. I have to stay here and help with the fundraising."

"Nonsense, why shouldn't you leave if you want to?"

Her jaw took on a stubborn set. "Look, it's not my idea of fun, but I have to stay. It's part of the job."

Patrick ignored this. "Where is it that you want to go?"

"Why should I tell you?" she asked, exasperated.

"Why _shouldn't_ you tell me?" he countered.

"Oh, all right." She bit her lip. "There's this great jazz band playing at the Black Cat tonight. I was hoping I could get out of here in time for the last set, but at this point it doesn't look like it's going to happen."

Patrick's mind worked rapidly. "What's your fundraising target?"

She blinked. "My what?"

"Your fundraising target. How much is the symphony supposed to raise to hit its benchmark?"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," she informed him.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "That's doable."

"What do you mean, 'that's doable?'"

He took a deep breath. "If I raise the money in the next half an hour, can I go to the Black Cat with you?"

"If _you_ raise the money?"

"Yes. In fact, forget the two hundred and fifty thousand. I'll double it."

"You think you can raise half a million dollars in thirty minutes?" she asked incredulously.

"Con man, remember?" he reminded her. "Surely if you participate in exceeding the fundraising target by that much, the classical music storm troopers here will let you go."

Seeing her hesitation, he urged, "Come on. What have you got to lose?"

This decided her. "All right." She met his eyes. "You're on."

Xxx

He led her back to the group of donors and brought out his most charming and insincere smile for the task of parting them with their money.

With Teresa at his side, it was hardly even a challenge. Normally, his cons relied on nothing but his own dubious charms and the castles of lies he painted in the sky for his marks. Teresa, on the other hand, was the real thing. Beautiful, talented, enchanting. With her there to bolster his persuasive efforts, the marks practically fell all over themselves to open their checkbooks.

The music director, cottoning on to the fact that the number of zeroes on the checks tended to be greater when the marks—er, donors—spoke to Patrick and Teresa, started shepherding donors in their direction whenever it looked as though the previous fleecing—er, donation—was complete.

Patrick was quite enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he'd had any kind of goal to work towards. He found the effort more stimulating than he would have imagined.

His enjoyment diminished somewhat, however, when a tall, dark-haired man made his way over to them, beaming at the sight of Teresa.

"Teresa!" he said in delight. He swooped in and kissed her on the cheek. His hand rested on the curve of her waist with a little too much familiarity for Patrick's liking.

"Hello, Walter," she greeted him, a genuine smile gracing her lovely features. "How are you?"

"Much better, now that I'm seeing you," he said, his gaze fixed on her. "I was afraid you might have escaped these drones and fled back to your enchanted forest, where no mere mortal may follow."

She raised her eyebrows. "My enchanted forest?"

"Certainly," Walter said breezily. "Where else would an enchanting creature such as yourself make her home?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're so full of it." She couldn't hide a grin, though, so Patrick could tell she wasn't annoyed.

Patrick watched this interaction with interest. This man was another admirer, that much was obvious. Not an old friend like Cho. Not with the way this man's eyes dilated when he looked at her. Not like Michael, though, whose attentions would always be unreciprocated. They'd slept together at some point in the past, Patrick concluded, watching them. Things must have ended amicably between them, or Teresa would be ill at ease. But she seemed comfortable in Walter's presence, teasing and laughing with him.

"I'm sorry," Teresa said, cutting her eyes back to Patrick. "I haven't introduced you. Patrick, this is Walter Mashburn. Walter, this is Patrick Jane."

"Nice to meet you," Mashburn said to Patrick, tearing his eyes away from Teresa long enough to shake his hand.

"Likewise," Patrick said, returning the handshake. He held on to the other man's hand for a moment after he knew Mashburn would have naturally pulled away. "Tell me, what color is your car?"

Mashburn raised his eyebrows, amused, but decided to play along. "Yellow. Well, my newest one, that is. Why?"

"No reason," Patrick said, letting his hand go. Just as he'd thought. Mashburn was filthy rich. "I bet it's an awful shade of mustard, isn't it?"

Mashburn laughed. "Got it in one. I confess I rather like it, though. What are you, psychic?"

Patrick smiled. "How did you know?"

"You have that charlatan air about you," Mashburn informed him.

Patrick was startled into a genuine laugh. "Very perceptive."

"Watch out," Teresa warned Mashburn. "He's a con man. He's going to try to con you into writing a check to SFS. He thinks he can raise half a million dollars in one night."

"Really," Mashburn said with interest. "How much do you need? I may be able to help out."

"That's all right," Patrick said swiftly. He found he did not want to accept one cent from this man for the purpose of furthering this particular goal. "Teresa and I are quite close to our target goal for the night. There's no need to trouble yourself on our account."

"I see," Mashburn said, obviously taking note of Patrick's use of 'Teresa and I.' His eyes sparkled merrily. "It's like that, is it?"

"Just trying to help our fair city retain its claim on such a remarkable talent," Patrick said mildly.

"Ah, yes," Mashburn said, mouth quirking. "She is rather remarkable, isn't she? Speaking of which, Teresa," he said, turning his attention back to her. "Now that you live here, you should really consider going out with me again."

Patrick had to give him credit. He didn't give up easily. And he certainly knew quality when he saw it.

Teresa rolled her eyes. "Don't you have a gaggle of supermodels following you around all the time? What do you want with me when you could have any one of them with a snap of your fingers?"

"None of them can hold a candle to you," Mashburn scoffed. "Surely you know that." His eyes lingered on her in such a way that made Patrick think that despite the clichéd words, Mashburn actually meant it.

"Always with the hyperbole," Teresa teased.

Patrick shifted. Exes or no, things were getting a little too friendly for his liking. Time to put a wrench in Mashburn's plans to reconnect with the fair Teresa Lisbon once and for all. "If you'll excuse us, Walter," Patrick said smoothly. "Teresa and I have a few other matters to attend to before we head out."

"Of course," Mashburn said, not the least bit offended. He grinned at Teresa. "Teresa. You know where to find me if you ever change your mind."

"I appreciate that, Walter," Teresa said with a smile. "Good luck with your supermodels."

He winked at her. "Good luck with your charlatan." With that, he disappeared back into the crowd.

"So," Patrick commented. "You two were lovers? I'm guessing for about… three months. Am I right?"

"Not that it's any of your business," she said, flushing. "But yes. We dated for a while."

"Let me guess. It started casual. You both had a good time. Then he wanted more and you broke it off."

"Okay, seriously, how the _hell_ could you guess that?" she asked, exasperated.

Patrick ignored this. "Why'd you break it off? You're obviously sexually compatible. And you two seem to get along okay, if the witty banter is anything to go by."

"None of your business," she said, embarrassed.

His eyes widened, reading the truth behind her discomfort. "He proposed?" This, he hadn't expected.

"Walter is very impetuous," she said, face flaming.

"So why'd you say no?" he asked curiously.

She looked at him, incredulous. "The guy's been married four times."

"So?"

"So, I had no desire to be divorce number five," she said, a little stiffly.

"Maybe this one would have stuck." He had the feeling Teresa Lisbon was not the kind of woman men walked away from.

She shook her head. "Walter is a lot of fun, but he's not the sort of guy you settle down with."

"Why not? He's rich, successful. If you married him, he'd treat you like a queen."

"Walter lives in a world of Ferraris and parties with ice sculptures."

"What's wrong with that?"

"That world isn't real," she explained. "It's apart, somehow. If you leave this world to go to that one—well, I'm not so sure it's possible to live in both of them at the same time."

"And you choose to live in the real world," Patrick concluded.

She met his eyes. "Yes. I suppose I do."

He smiled at her. "No matter how many hearts you break along the way."

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "I did not break Walter Mashburn's heart. I'm sure he pined for me for a whole two seconds before being distracted by a swimsuit model or something."

"I think you did, a little," Patrick said, thinking of the way Mashburn had looked at her. "He's just very resilient. Doesn't change the fact that you're a heartbreaker."

"I am not," she protested.

"Sure you are," he said, grinning. "I bet there's a string of broken hearts in your wake wherever you go. Perhaps even another disappointed proposal somewhere along the way?"

She avoided his gaze. "No."

"More than one?" he said, impressed. "Heartbreaker."

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled.

She was too much fun. "Out of curiosity, just how many are we talking about here?"

She cleared her throat. "Don't you have rich people to con?"

"So I do," he agreed, grinning. "Shall we?"

Xxx

The last check signed, Patrick presented it to Teresa with a flourish. "Here you are."

She stared at the check in her hands. "You really did it," she said, flabbergasted. "You really raised half a million dollars in less than thirty minutes."

"Technically, it was twenty-eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds," Patrick said. "But who's counting? Come on, let's blow this joint."

"I have to give this to the music director," she said, still staring at the check in her hands.

"As you wish. Shall we take your car or mine?"

"You still want to go?" she asked. "It's awfully late."

"Of course I do." He hadn't rushed through those last couple of marks for nothing, after all. "Unless you're having second thoughts?" His heart thudded unpleasantly in his chest at the thought.

"No… I'd still like to go."

"If you're having second thoughts about letting me tag along…"

"No, of course not. A deal's a deal, isn't it?"

He watched her closely. "Teresa… the deal is just a trick. It doesn't obligate you to anything. If you're not comfortable having me along, we'll just forget the whole thing."

She raised her eyebrows. "After all that time you just spent weaseling money out of rich guests so you could come along?"

"I consider my efforts meager repayment for the pleasure of hearing you play this evening," he said sincerely, making every effort to mask his disappointment.

"Well, I don't," she said firmly. She took a deep breath. "Meet me in the hallway in ten minutes."


	4. Chapter 4

Teresa Lisbon, it turned out, wasn't one to dilly dally. When she said she'd be ready in ten minutes, she meant it. When Patrick went out into the hall, she was standing by the window, wearing a form-fitting red t-shirt, a black leather jacket, black boots, and a pair of dark blue jeans that made it damn near impossible to look away from her ass. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned to face him. "Ready?" The only thing that remained of her previous attire was the gold cross around her neck.

Her long dark hair had been released from the elegant knot at the back of her head and tumbled down over her shoulders in a mass of unruly curls.

He swallowed. She looked a thousand times more real and infinitely more touchable.

Eventually, he managed to find his voice. "Yes, I'm ready."

"Great. I decided you can drive."

His brain caught up with him. "You're not bringing your instrument with you?"

She shook her head. "No, if I have to carry it around all night, I'll spend half the time worrying about it and won't enjoy myself."

"You could lock it in the trunk," he suggested.

"Trust me, no matter what kind of car you have, that violin is worth more. It'll be safer locked up here. I'll come back and pick it up in the morning before I go to the airport."

"Very well," he said. "Shall we go, then?"

"Yeah." She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

His fingers twitched with the urge to settle his hand at the small of her back, to splay his fingers over the taut muscles there, but he held back, suddenly fearful that if he touched this woman, she might have the power to burn him.

Instead, he hastened to catch up to her. He made a point of pushing the door open for her. "After you, my dear."

He made sure to keep enough distance between them that there was no danger she would brush against him as she passed.

Xxx

The bouncer at the Black Cat greeted Teresa like an old friend.

Once inside, the hostess guided the two of them to a cozy booth tucked away in the corner.

Patrick followed Teresa into the curved booth, realizing too late in what dangerous proximity to her the semi-circle shape allowed him to place himself. The scent of cinnamon wafted towards him in intoxicating waves. He fought the nearly overwhelming instinct to lean towards her and bury his face in her soft, untamed curls.

He was far too close. He inched away subtly, hoping she wouldn't notice.

They ordered drinks and sat without speaking for a while. They just listened to the music. Teresa listened with her whole being, rapt. Patrick listened carefully to the swoops and strains of the melody. The band wasn't half bad. He deconstructed the notes in his head and wondered if Teresa ever played any jazz herself. Wondered if she ever played any other instruments besides the violin. He considered asking her, but decided he didn't want to interrupt the moment. He'd forgotten what it was like to share the quiet with someone, without feeling the need to fill the silence with conversation. It was a remarkably soothing feeling.

When the band announced they were going to take a break before playing the last few songs and Teresa shifted in her seat, it dawned on him that actually, conversation might be something he wanted to engage in for once. "How'd you hear about these guys?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

"I heard them play one time when I was back home in Chicago," she told him. "There was this little place I used to go to for a little peace and quiet whenever my brothers were making me more crazy than usual. They played one night and I was blown away. They've been playing together for more than twenty years, can you believe that?"

"You can hear it when they play. They're comfortable with one another," Patrick said. "They anticipate each other."

She smiled at him, pleased that he'd noticed. "Yes. You can hear how much they love the music, can't you?"

"I can," Patrick said. "I felt the same way when I heard you play. Even more so with you, actually."

Teresa didn't quite know what to say to that.

Patrick took another sip of his drink. "How did you learn the violin in the first place?"

"My grandfather taught me. Irish fiddle. After he died, my mom always said it reminded her of him. She used to sew while she listened to me practice. She always had this soft little smile on her face while she listened to me play." Her own smile was a little wistful as she remembered.

Patrick watched the curve of her beautiful mouth and the light in her sad eyes. He bet her mother looked just like her. The thought caused an unexpected pang in his chest. "I can imagine."

Teresa cleared her throat. "Anyway, after she died, I guess playing made me feel closer to her. It was pretty tough at home, after," she said carefully.

He heard a wealth of things unsaid in that simple statement. "Your dad," he said quietly. "He must have been devastated."

"He was… broken. He was a good man. He just—he didn't know how to deal with a loss like that."

He watched her, seeing all the things she wasn't saying. "That's no excuse for him to have taken his pain out on you and your brothers."

She looked at him sharply. "I never said—"

"You didn't have to," he said softly.

"It's not something I usually talk about," she said stiffly.

"I know." He was sure she took great pains to make sure no one ever saw that part of her life. He gave her a tired half-smile. "I'm sorry. Occupational hazard. I can't really turn it off."

She watched him. He got the feeling she was seeing more of him than he usually let people see, too. "That must be hard. Seeing so much about people, whether you want to or not."

He shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Yeah," she murmured. "Sometimes things are like that." It was clear her thoughts had drifted back to her father.

"You never considered turning him in, did you?" he asked. "You were a minor. If you'd let the police know what was happening, they might have been able to stop him from hurting you and your brothers."

She turned her head away. "Yeah. I know."

"But what could you do?" he said, to show her he understood. "You were what, twelve years old? Suddenly everything was on your shoulders. Propping up your father. Protecting your brothers. Keeping the family together. Not to mention putting food on the table. If you'd reported him to the authorities, they probably would have sent you all to foster care. Would have separated you and your brothers, most likely. So you soldiered on."

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Pretty much."

"Music was your escape," he said softly. "Your one safe place."

She fiddled with the cross necklace around her neck. "He broke the violin my grandfather gave me. Smashed it into a thousand pieces in a drunken rage. Aside from hitting my brothers, that was the worst thing he ever did to me. A hundred times worse than hitting me. I could take the physical pain, but that? It was like he had destroyed a part of my soul."

"You kept playing though, didn't you?"

She nodded. "He went out the next day and got me a used violin from a music shop downtown. Took out a loan on his car to do it. It was…well. I knew he was sorry. He never touched my music again, after that."

That didn't bring back her grandfather's violin, though. "And you forgave him."

She looked down at her hands. "He was my father."

"Is he still around?"

"No. He—he died about ten years ago."

Another careful answer. Suicide? Patrick wondered. That would be consistent with the image of the grief-stricken husband unable to climb out of the bottle. He didn't press the matter. "My condolences."

She gave a heartbreaking little laugh that was meant to be self-deprecating. "Sorry. I didn't mean to go into all that. You didn't invite yourself along to hear my sad stories."

He shrugged. "I don't mind. I'm no stranger to sad stories, myself."

She looked at him intently. Her green eyes looked about a thousand miles deep. "Aren't you?"

He feigned nonchalance. "Everybody has sad stories."

"I suppose so. You just seem like you have this devil may care thing going on."

He smiled without humor. "A clever façade, I'm afraid."

A tiny furrow appeared between her brows. "Why? What happened?"

"Come now," he said, struggling to maintain what she called his devil may care attitude. "You didn't let me invite myself along so you could listen to _my_ sad stories."

"I don't mind," she whispered.

He sighed. "You probably know the basics, at least."

The line between her eyes deepened. "I don't—what do you mean?"

"You must know. It was in all the papers."

Distress colored her voice. "No, I—I don't know what you're talking about."

He regarded her intently, trying to gauge if she was on the level, but he could find no signs of deceit. How could she not know?

"Patrick Jane? Red John? Any of this ringing a bell?"

She looked upset. "No. I'm sorry. You said it was in the papers. When was this?"

"Five years ago," he said, watching her face. "You really don't remember?"

"Five years ago," she repeated. "I was in Vienna. I lived there for three years."

She didn't know. She really didn't know.

It wouldn't have been picked up in the international news, he realized. It had made the national news, just barely. Buried towards the back of the paper. It was here in California that the coverage had been inescapable.

He stared into his drink. "Five years ago, a man broke into my house and murdered my wife and child."

She covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, my God."

"I killed him." He stated it baldly, without apology. "Right there on the spot. I was too late, though. He'd already taken them from me."

Her voice was anguished. "I'm so sorry."

"The police called him Red John. He was a serial killer. Killed twelve women before he murdered my wife and daughter. They had no clue who he was. No idea how to catch him, til I stumbled across him in my home."

She looked at him with compassion-filled eyes. "I can't imagine."

"It was my fault," he said, the familiar guilt and self-loathing rising in his stomach. "I told you I was a con man. Pretended to be psychic. I went on TV and boasted that I could catch him. Called him an ugly, tormented little man." His throat felt like there was a shard of glass lodged in it. "He went after them because of what I said. It was my fault he killed them."

"No." Her voice was soft, but firm. "You couldn't have known what would happen. It was his choice to hurt them. Their deaths resulted from his actions, not yours."

He appreciated her saying so, though he didn't believe it. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I was a bit of a mess, after." He smiled wryly. "Still am, really."

She gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

He gazed at her, looking soft and warm in the dim light. "Yeah. We are."

The moment stretched out as their eyes locked, dark and intense in shared understanding.

She broke eye contact first. She took a hasty sip of her drink, clearly unnerved by the intensity of their connection. "So," she said, casting about for a change of topic. "What's your escape?"

"My escape?" he repeated.

"Yeah." She gestured towards him with her glass. "We've established mine is music. What's yours?"

"Haven't found it yet," he admitted. "Not a foolproof one, anyway. Been trying out a lot of different things. Music is my latest. I can't play any instruments, though, so I have to look to others to provide something of sufficient quality to make it worth the trouble."

"Have you tried singing?" she asked, deadpan.

He smiled ruefully. "Only in the shower. And believe me, that sound would not cure anyone of a lingering depression. Rather the opposite, I think."

"So what else have you tried?"

"You name it, I've tried it. Skydiving, cocaine, alcohol, sex…"

She raised her eyebrows. "None of those did the trick?"

"Nope. Temporary anesthetic only. I'm still looking for the long-term fix."

"Well, at least you're looking," she said encouragingly. "That's something."

"I guess," he said doubtfully. "I guess I'd feel better if I weren't so spectacularly bad at it, though."

"Have you tried volunteering?"

"Volunteering?" he repeated blankly.

"Yes. Volunteering. You know, helping others?"

He stared at her as though he'd never heard of such a thing. "Volunteering at what?"

She shrugged. "Anything. Whatever you're good at."

"I'm not good at anything but lying and cheating." The words were out before he could consider how pathetic they sounded.

She rolled her eyes. "That's not true. You're good at observing people. You have a good memory. And apparently you're charming as all hell, judging by how easily you parted all those donors with their money tonight. Any charitable organization would snap you up as a fundraiser in a minute if you found one you cared about enough to bother. Besides, surely you have _some_ other skills."

"Well," he said slowly. "I do know quite a few magic tricks."

"There you go," she said. "You could volunteer at a children's hospital. You could serve as the entertainment."

He considered this. He did enjoy spending time with kids. They were so brutally and refreshingly honest. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

"Good," she said, satisfied.

"Do you volunteer yourself?" he asked curiously.

"Sure. I teach music lessons. I have a couple of kids I teach regularly, and there's a music camp in Idaho I usually help out at in the summer every year. I won't be able to go this year, though, because of the whole Paris thing," she said with regret.

"I bet you're a good teacher." He bet all the boys had crushes on her.

"My brothers wouldn't agree with you," she said ruefully. "They can't believe I teach. They all think I'm too impatient."

"You're impatient with laziness and goofing off when you're trying to work," he said. "When someone really tries, you have the patience of a saint."

She made a face. "I don't know about that."

"I do." There wasn't a doubt in his mind.

She looked at him, exasperated. "Are you always like this?"

He smirked. "What, uncannily observant?"

"I meant obnoxiously arrogant," she said dryly.

He was startled into a laugh. "I'm afraid it comes with the territory of always being right."

"Always?" she said skeptically.

"Nearly always," he amended.

"Ha," she said, clearly disbelieving him.

"I'll prove it," he said, laughing.

"Prove it?" she echoed. "How?"

He met her gaze. "I'll tell you three things about yourself you've never told anybody. If I guess right…"

He cast about for a suitable reward, but the only things that immediately occurred to him involved burying his nose in her cinnamon-scented hair and a more general desire to prolong his presence in her company. If he requested the former, however, she'd think he needed his head examined. After a moment, he settled on the obvious solution. It was trite and terribly uncreative, but it would have the happy advantage of fulfilling his second objective, if he pulled it off. "If I guess right, you have to buy the next round." Thus ensuring there _was_ a next round, even if the band was wrapping up its last set.

She raised her eyebrows. "What do I get if you guess wrong?"

"Let's not get your hopes up," he said, his face splitting into a grin. "I won't be wrong."

"If you're so damn sure of yourself, what's the harm in letting me claim my share of the stakes?" she challenged him.

"Fine," he said, humoring her. "If I don't guess right, you can name your prize. Sky's the limit."

"That's a dangerous bargain to be making," she observed. "What if I ask for something you don't want to give?"

At that moment, he couldn't think of a single thing he would refuse her, if she asked. His car, a yacht… him dancing around North Beach in a tutu. "Should I be worried?" he asked, curious. "What is it that you want?"

Her eyes flitted to his mouth, then quickly skittered away. "Never you mind," she muttered, embarrassed.

His pulse ticked up a notch at the thought of her demanding a kiss as her prize. He considered throwing the bet then and there, but he settled on teasing her, instead. "You're blushing."

She ignored this. "If you're so smart, let's hear it. What are your guesses?"

"Ah, it's not so simple as that, my dear," he said, delighting in her blush.

She snorted. "I figured as much. You are so full of it."

"Patience," he advised her. "I need to attune myself to your innermost thoughts. Then I will be able to guess all your secrets."

"Uh-huh," she said, still not buying it. "Sure."

He lifted one brow. "Still don't believe me? Then you won't mind engaging in the calibration exercise with me."

"The 'calibration exercise?'" she said, voice laden with sarcasm. "What's that, some kind of voodoo yoga move?"

"Not at all. It's very simple. Here, turn and face me." He turned his own body in the booth so he faced her squarely, fixing his gaze on her face.

She gave him a sidelong look, but decided to humor him. She dutifully turned to face him directly.

"Excellent," Patrick said. "Now, look deep into my eyes."

"Seriously?" she said, her dimple quirking at the side of her mouth. "Do people actually believe this crap when you pull it on them?"

"Look deep into my eyes," he repeated. "Concentrate on projecting your thoughts onto the back of my mind."

She huffed a little impatiently but finally, she fixed her eyes on his.

There was that green tidal wave again. His fingers clutched the seat cushion of the booth. He felt as though he were in danger of falling over, despite the fact that he was sitting down.

He stared into her eyes, clear, bottomless green pools. He thought he might drown in them.

Her mouth parted softly as she stared back into his own eyes, forgetting her skepticism and losing herself in the moment.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment that seemed to exist out of time, before Teresa finally recovered herself and blinked. "Uh," she said, licking her lips. "Well, what did you see?"

"Huh?" he said. He was still swimming in the green sea pools.

"What are your guesses?" she said, a touch impatiently. The moment had clearly rattled her a bit.

"Oh," he said, blinking himself. "Uh." He struggled to recall himself to reality. "You like to listen to the Spice Girls," he said without thinking about it.

"No, I don't," she denied automatically.

He noticed the telltale flush creeping up her neck. "Oh, yes, you do," he said confidently. "You like to dance around to their music in your apartment when no one else is around." A brief image of her dancing around her apartment in nothing but her bare feet and an oversized jersey flashed through his mind. He absent-mindedly tugged at his collar. It was rather warm in here. Strange. He hadn't noticed it before.

"I do not," she said mutinously.

He chuckled. "There's no point in denying it. You, my dear, are translucent."

She wrinkled her nose. "Translucent?"

"You're a terrible liar," he told her.

"I can lie," she said defensively. "Pretty damn convincingly, too, I might add."

"It's not a bad thing," he said. "Good, honest people are always terrible liars."

She stuck her chin out. "I'm a good liar," she said stubbornly.

He didn't know who she thought she was fooling. "Suit yourself."

She glared at him. "What are your other guesses?"

He tapped his index finger against his lips, considering. "When you were little, your favorite game was cops and robbers," he announced. "You always played the cop. You made your brothers be the robbers."

Her mouth fell open. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I told you," he said, grinning. "I'm a good guesser."

"Hmph," she tutted, still in disbelief.

"My third guess is related to the second," he told her. "You used to think about becoming a cop for real, back when you were younger. An interesting alternative career path for a world-renowned musician."

"Nope," she said triumphantly. "I wanted to be a doctor."

He smiled. "Liar."

She scowled. Her lower lip jutted out adorably. "Fine. You win. What are you having?"

"Having?" he repeated, staring at her mouth.

"Yes," she said impatiently. "I'm going to the bar to get our second round. What are you having?"

"Tea," he said.

She faltered. "Tea?"

"I'm driving," he said by way of explanation.

"You want me to order tea from the bar?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm sure they'll give it to you, if you ask nicely," he said. His eyes roamed over her. If any of the bar staff were male, they'd probably give it to her even if she asked less than nicely.

She shook her head and slid out of the booth to head to the bar.

He gave her a head start, his gaze lingering on her sexy ass in those blue jeans as she strode to the bar. He tore his eyes away with difficulty and slid out of the booth himself. There was no time for distractions. He had business to attend to.

He executed his plan swiftly and beat her back to the booth with her none the wiser to his temporary absence. She walked back to the booth, a cup and saucer balanced in one hand and a beer for herself in the other.

She handed him the cup and saucer, shaking her head. "I can't believe you made me order tea from the bar. You should have seen the look on the guy's face when I asked for it. He had to go to the break room to even find a kettle."

He shrugged, unrepentant. "It's my favorite thing to drink."

"Really? You have the whole wide world of coffee, liquor, and soft drinks to choose from, and your favorite drink is tea?"

"What's wrong with tea?" he defended. "It's soothing. It's like a hug in a cup."

She looked at him as though he were vaguely unstable and shook her head.

The band came back on then. "Thank you all for coming out tonight," the lead saxophone player said into the mike in a deep, gravelly voice. "Since tonight's our last night in San Francisco, we thought we'd give y'all a special treat and play one more set. So if you're not tired of listening to us jam, stick around. We'll be here a while longer."

Teresa's eyes lit up. "They're playing an extra set," she said excitedly. "They _never_ play extra sets."

Patrick knew this all too well. He was a thousand bucks poorer for it. "Guess it's our lucky night."

She turned to him, eyes shining. "This is amazing. I was so disappointed I couldn't make it for the beginning of the show, but this totally makes up for it."

He smiled, pleased that his small effort had succeeded in bringing her some small amount of pleasure.

They listened to the band, moving in and out of conversation as the night progressed. Patrick marveled that he was as content quietly listening at her side as he was in engaging in discussions with her on topics ranging over seemingly everything under the sun.

"Stop it," Teresa laughed after hearing one of his more outlandish stories from his carnie days. "You did not."

"I did so," he said, sipping his tea. "The ringmaster was out for blood. I had to hide in Daisy's stall for a week."

"You're making this up," she accused, eyes sparkling.

"I'm not, I swear," he said, laughing. "I think I still have that top hat somewhere. It still smells like elephant over twenty years later."

She shook her head. "Sounds like you're quite the trouble maker."

His grin widened. "You have no idea."

Xxx

Some time later, Patrick sipped his third cup of tea and watched her over the rim. "Favorite food."

"Pizza," she said immediately.

"Ah," he said. "I should have known. You being from Chicago and all."

She made a face. "Am I so predictable, then?"

He smiled into his cup, delighted at the cute way her nose wrinkled up when she made her face at him. It was even more adorable up close. "That depends on your answer to my next question. Favorite dessert?"

She hesitated. "Tiramisu."

He grinned. "Liar."

"What is it, then?" she challenged him.

"Ice cream, of course."

She threw her napkin at him, evidently irritated at him guessing correctly yet again.

He let it hit him, then fall to his side. Would it be pathetic if he kept it, like a handkerchief denoting a token of favor in days of old? He decided it would be. "Favorite book?"

She shook her head. "Not a fair question. No one who likes to read could answer that question."

"Good point. Let me guess _one_ of your favorites, then."

She looked amused. "Knock yourself out."

He studied her. "Hm. I'm betting you have pretty eclectic tastes. You probably like to keep abreast of things like the latest Booker prize winners so you can judge for yourself what all the hoopla is about. In non-fiction, you're inclined to history and commentaries on social justice. I'm thinking you read quite a lot of biographies, because you're curious about people's lives. Your secret vice, of course," he went on, "is crime thrillers, detective stories, that sort of thing. But as to a true favorite, one that you've read and re-read a hundred times…" He considered. "Pride and Prejudice."

"God," she said. "You make me sound like the biggest cliché in the world."

"Not at all," he said, pleased he'd guessed right. "You like to hide your emotions behind a tough veneer, but deep down you're a romantic. Nothing wrong with that."

She gave him a sideways glance. "Yeah?"

He shrugged. "Makes the world go round."

A slow smile broke out over her face, as though she'd succeeded in guessing one of _his_ secrets. "Takes one to know one, I guess," she teased.

"Sure," he said, pretending to mistake her meaning. "I'm a fan of Jane Austen myself."

"Are you?" she said, amused.

"Sure. Jane Austen used her cleverness and wit to mock fools and hypocrites. What's not to like?"

"Guess you two are kindred spirits," Teresa remarked.

"Absolutely. I think Jane Austen and I would have been friends, if we'd lived at the same time."

She laughed at him again. It really was an enchanting sight.

"Okay, it's my turn," she decided. "What's your favorite book? No, wait," she said before he could answer. "Let me guess."

She fixed her eyes on him, studying his face.

He raised an eyebrow, curious as to what she'd come up with. "Well?"

"Sherlock Holmes," she said triumphantly.

"What made you guess that?" he asked, startled.

She smirked. "It's obvious," she said, in clear mockery of his own claim. "You think you can take one look at someone and guess everything about them based on the kind of dirt on their shoelaces."

"No, I don't," he protested feebly.

"Yes, you do," she said, grinning. "I'm right, aren't I? He's one of your favorites."

He may have liked guessing her thoughts, but he wasn't sure how he felt about her being able to read him in turn. "Maybe."

"I am," she said with assurance.

"All right, you got me," he admitted. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "My turn again."

"Shoot."

He considered. "Favorite composer."

"Bach," she said without hesitation. "You?"

"Rachmaninoff."

"He's good, too," she said generously. She hesitated, as though about to add something else, but bit her lip and said nothing, apparently thinking better of it.

Patrick observed the bitten lip and tried to guess at its meaning. "You write music, too," he said, faintly surprised. As soon as he said the words, he knew they were true.

"No," she denied instinctively. She bit her lip again. "Well—not really. There is this one thing I've been working on for a while."

"What's it called?" Patrick asked curiously.

She hesitated again. "'Margaret's Song,'" she said at last, softly.

He sat back again. "After your mother."

She looked down. "Yeah."

"I bet it's wonderful," he said truthfully.

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know. I've been working on it forever. It's close, but… I don't know. There's something missing. Sometimes I think I almost have it, but it stays just out of reach."

"I hope I have the opportunity to hear it someday," Patrick said. In fact, he could think of very little he wouldn't give to hear that particular piece of music.

She shifted uncomfortably and looked away. "Maybe someday."

He continued to watch her. The graceful arc of her neck, a particularly delectable freckle just above her collarbone. The soft, full mouth. Eyes shining in the dark room. Dark curls, wild and untamed.

There was no way he was going to be able to make it through the rest of the night without touching her.

The realization was not an entirely welcome one. He was afraid of what it would mean for him to touch this woman. This was not a woman one could use for the purpose of forgetting. She was the kind who would take up permanent residence inside one's brain, crowding out reason and caution. She was the kind who would drive one to distraction, if one was foolish enough to let her get close. Forgetting would be impossible.

He swallowed. Wasn't that what he wanted? To crack the numbness, to feel again?

But at what cost? he asked himself. The numbness was heavy and exhausting, yes, but it was safe. An impenetrable cloak, shielding him from the dangers of fear and grief. Now that he was faced with the alternative, he wasn't sure he was ready to give it up.

She watched the band, completely oblivious to the internal battle he was busy waging next to her. She swayed slightly in time to the beat, her movement an unconscious reflection of her engagement with the music.

On the other hand, he argued with himself, what was he going to do? Call it a night? Go home to stare at the ceiling? Again? And again every night, until his body decided to finally stop breathing? This was the first time in five years he'd felt the glimmer of something real. Was he really going to turn his back on this chance, just because the thought of letting someone get close to him was completely terrifying?

Of course, he rationalized, how close could she possibly get? It was one night. She was flying to Paris the next morning. One night. Surely he could indulge in a little harmless flirting, find out a little more about her, and then wish her well and see her on her merry way. One night. He could manage that. It would be perfectly safe.

No, he thought, watching the pulse beat in the hollow of her throat as she tucked her hair behind her ear. There was nothing safe about Teresa Lisbon at all.

Unaccountably, he thought of his father, which was strange. He never thought about his father. At least, not when he could help it. Yet the image of Alex Jane raking in a pile of poker chips, cackling in triumph burned itself through his brain. The sound of his raspy voice, hoarse from staying up all night smoking too many cigars, echoed in his head. _Nothing ventured, Paddy my boy, nothing gained._

Sometimes he really hated his father.

He looked at her again, now drumming her slender fingers along the surface of the table along with the beat. He could still smell her hair.

He gave up. He wiped his palms on his thighs and took a shaky sip of his now cold tea. Then he slid out of the booth, resigned to his fate. Surrender, he determined, was his only option.

He placed himself in front of her. Extended his hand.

She looked up at him, startled. "What are you doing?"

He kept his hand outstretched towards her and took a deep breath.

"Obviously you want to dance."


	5. Chapter 5

She stared at his hand. "What, now?"

"There's a band playing. A dance floor. Seems like the perfect time to me."

"No one else is dancing," she protested.

That was largely because there were hardly any people left in the establishment at this late hour, so he failed to see her point. "So what?"

She looked at his hand, still outstretched. Then she looked back at the band. She wavered.

He waggled his fingers in a beckoning motion. "Come on. You love this song."

She bit her lip. "I do love this song."

He raised his eyebrows. "Then what are you waiting for?"

She gave him a look, but took his hand at last.

Warmth suffused him. Heat piped in through his veins from the place where her strong, graceful fingers touched his. He pulled her to her feet. Their eyes met, and he felt hot all over.

He led her to the dance floor. He took her right hand in his left. His right hand spanned her back, fingers curling around her ribcage. She fit easily into his arms.

Cinnamon invaded his senses. The scent of her filled his lungs. Cinnamon, and a richer, spicier scent. He was dizzy with it.

He could taste cinnamon on the back of his tongue.

She fell into step with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He controlled the instinct to gasp at the press of her strong, slender body against his. He took a deep breath and clutched her hand a little tighter in his. He hoped she didn't notice.

He concentrated on the steps. She moved so easily with him, though, that soon he forgot to think about what he was doing and held her closer to him. She offered no resistance. She let her head rest against his shoulder. The silk of her hair slid against his neck and cheek. He rubbed his cheek against the sheer softness of it and closed his eyes to better revel in the sensation.

Time disappeared. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Patrick forgot himself completely. He simply moved to the music with Teresa in his arms. Lost himself in the sensation of holding this warm, soft woman next to his heart.

The music flowed seamlessly from one song to the next. He did not offer to release her. Instead, he shifted closer. She didn't seem to mind.

They danced on.

Xxx

He was roused from this pleasant dream only when the lights came up some considerable time later.

He blinked against the suddenly harsh light, feeling decidedly off-kilter.

Teresa lifted her head from his shoulder, looking similarly disoriented. "What happened?"

"Sorry, folks," the band leader said from the stage, sounding amused. "The last set ended five minutes ago. We're done for the night."

"Oh," Patrick said stupidly. His heart sank. "I suppose it's rather late." Except for them, the place was entirely deserted.

"I'd say so," the band leader agreed. He nodded to one of his band mates, sleepily attempting to gather up his gear. "Johnny over there was about to fall asleep on his drums."

Teresa extracted herself from Patrick's arms and walked over to the stage. "Thank you for playing the extra set," she said warmly. "It was wonderful."

"My pleasure, Miz Lisbon," the band leader said, flashing a smile full of bright white teeth.

She blinked. "You know who I am?"

"Of course. I saw you play in Chicago last year at Christmas. It was an experience I'd not soon forget." He shook his head. "If I may say so, you certainly know your way around a fiddle, young lady."

Teresa blushed. "Thank you. I'm honored. I've been a fan of yours for a long time, so that means a lot."

He offered his hand. "Well, from one fan to another, I wish you a very pleasant evening."

She returned the handshake. "You, too."

He winked at her. "If you ever get tired of playing that stuffy chamber music and want to come jam with us, just say the word."

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"Sure." He produced a card and handed it to her. "It's not often we have the opportunity to have a decent jazz violinist play with us. Just let me know if you're around. Next time our paths cross, come on down to the studio. We'll see what we can do."

She beamed at him. "I'll take you up on that."

He smiled back at her, then nodded in acknowledgment at Patrick. "Good night, now."

Teresa returned to Patrick, the card still clutched in her hand. "Did you hear that?" she asked excitedly. "He said I could jam with them!"

He smiled. "That's nice."

"Nice?" She punched him in the arm, which he supposed must be her way of expressing enthusiasm. "This is amazing!"

He rubbed his arm surreptitiously. She hit really hard. "I'm glad for you."

Behind them, the bouncer cleared his throat pointedly. Teresa looked up, seeming to recollect herself. "I suppose we'd better go before they decide to physically throw us out of the building," she said ruefully.

"I suppose," Patrick echoed, his heart sinking. He didn't want the evening to end.

They gathered their things and headed for the door. They thanked the bouncer on their way out, and then they were outside in the dark cool night.

"Do you want me to take you back to the theater?" he asked as they walked back towards his car, ignoring the pit that had opened in his stomach at the thought of parting with her.

She hesitated. "I guess you'd better. My car is there, and I have to pick up my violin."

He nodded, the corners of his mouth turning downward.

He scowled at the ground the rest of the way back to the car.

Sensing his displeasure, she touched his arm when they reached his car. "Thank you for coming with me," she said, turning the full force of those green eyes on him. She graced him with a soft smile. "I had a really great time."

He unbent a little at the sincerity in her voice. "Me, too." He stared at her, forgetting everything else around him yet again. The eyes and the smile at the same time were a rather overwhelming combination.

She bit her lip. "I guess we should get in, huh?"

"Right," he said, shaking his head a little to bring himself back to his senses. He moved to unlock the passenger side door for her, then stopped.

If he took her back to her car, there was every chance he might never see her again. If he let her go, she would get on a plane to Paris and tomorrow the world would go back to being gray and flat. Tomorrow, and every day after that. A never ending sea of gray, flat tomorrows stretched out before him. Suddenly, he couldn't bear the idea of waking up, knowing that he would never see her again.

Of course, he couldn't tell her this. It would be an absurd thing to say to a woman he'd just met.

He turned back to her abruptly. And said instead, "Listen, are you hungry?"

"Hungry?" she echoed.

"Yeah, do you want to get something to eat?"

She looked at him a little askance. "It's three o clock in the morning."

"Yes, and you haven't eaten for hours. The performance was ages ago, and you didn't eat a thing at that after party. Aren't you feeling a little peckish?"

"Well… maybe a little," she admitted.

He seized the opening. "I know this great diner. It's open twenty-four hours a day. We could get sandwiches."

She hesitated. "I don't know. It's awfully late, and I have a flight in the morning."

"You can sleep on the plane," he argued.

She raised her eyebrows. "You're awfully pushy, aren't you? Don't you think this is a little presumptuous?"

He looked at her intently. "I want to spend more time with you. This is the best night I've had in… forever. I don't want it to end."

She bit her lip again. "So your solution to that is sandwiches?"

He threw caution to the wind. "We could make a night of it. Stay up all night. We could take our sandwiches somewhere and have a picnic."

"You want to have a picnic in the middle of the night?" she asked skeptically. He noticed she didn't sound entirely averse to the idea, though.

Encouraged, he pressed on. "Why not? We could drive up to the Lawrence Hall of Science and have our picnic under the stars. It's a great spot for stargazing."

She glanced upwards. "It is a beautiful night."

"Exactly. Who wants to waste a beautiful night like this sleeping?"

"Oh—all right." She flashed him a smile. "Let's do it."

He beamed at her. "Excellent."

Xxx

Patrick found an old Mexican blanket in the back of his car to serve as a picnic blanket. He laid it over the hood of his car and they spread out their feast accordingly. Once they had the food set out, he turned to Teresa and offered her his hand. "May I?" he said gallantly.

She rolled her eyes a little, but allowed him to assist her onto the hood of the car as though he were handing her into the back of an old-fashioned carriage. He clambered onto the hood after her and settled down next to her.

She gazed up at the night sky, strewn with brightly winking stars. "It's beautiful up here," she said, a note of awe in her voice.

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed. "I come up here sometimes when I can't sleep."

She looked at him. "Does that happen a lot?" she asked quietly.

"Meh. Sometimes," he said, not wanting to let her know quite how regular an occurrence it truly was.

She gave him a look that let him know she'd seen through his lie. Perversely, his heart warmed at the thought.

"So," he said, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite. "Tell me about growing up in Chicago."

She did. She told him about her mother being a nurse, and how she'd stitched up her elbow herself when Teresa had fallen out of a tree when she was nine. She told him how her mother baked so often for her and her brothers that she always smelled of chocolate chip cookies. She told him how her mother prayed every single day, and how grave and beautiful she looked when she addressed the Lord. She told him how in love with her mother her father had been, and how heartbreaking it was to witness his grief destroy him when she died, even as she, Teresa, bore her own. She told him about the dog she'd had as a child who followed her to school every morning until he died when she was in high school. She told him about her brothers and how she still worried about them every day, though they were all grown with their own families now.

Patrick listened avidly, absorbing every detail. He stowed them away in his memory palace as treasures of incalculable worth.

"Okay," she said, finishing her sandwich and moving on to a pint of strawberries Patrick had conned out of the staff at the diner. "Your turn."

At first, he wasn't sure he would be able to return the favor of her confidence. That piece of glass was still lodged in his throat. He began haltingly, bit by bit. But eventually, the words started to flow more smoothly. Soon, they were tumbling out of him. He told her about Angela. About Charlotte. He told her how much he'd loved them, and how difficult it had been to keep breathing ever since he'd lost them.

He told her happy things, too. He told her how he'd met Angela, how they'd run away together. He told her about how he'd felt the first time he'd held Charlotte in his arms on the day she was born. About how Charlotte loved to play pirates, and she was always the captain of the ship.

There was a loosening in his chest. As though unburdening himself of the weight of all those words had relieved physical pressure from his lungs. He inhaled. Suddenly, it was a thousand times easier to breathe. He breathed again. The air was cool and sweet.

When they'd finished eating, Patrick cleared the remnants of their picnic from the hood of the car and disposed of the empty containers in a nearby garbage bin. Then he climbed back onto the hood of the car and they leaned back onto the windshield to more comfortably admire the stars.

He made a show of pointing out the various constellations, describing their shapes and telling their stories. She humored him, letting him spin out the telling. Then she surprised him by telling him her favorite was the Blackfoot story of the Lost Children, about six orphaned brothers who decided to become stars to escape the mistreatment of the humans on earth. The moon welcomed them into the sky and called them her Lost Children. Patrick listened and wondered if she identified more with the orphaned brothers or the compassionate moon.

She was getting tired. He could tell by the increasingly long pauses between her sentences and the drowsy thickness of her voice. Still, selfishly, he did not offer to take her home. He desperately wanted to suspend time, to keep her by his side.

She fell asleep with her head resting against his shoulder.

He eased his arm around her. After all, he rationalized, she could hardly rest properly with her head awkwardly pillowed on that cold windshield. His arm would make a far more comfortable resting place. He managed to get his arm around her without waking her and settled her against his side. She murmured something incoherent and curled into him. She buried her face in the soft wool of his vest, then brought her hand up to rest over his heart as she shifted closer.

Tentatively, he reached over with his free hand and brushed the dark curls away from where they'd fallen across her face. Her curls were so soft—he couldn't resist stroking them a couple of times beyond what was strictly necessary to tuck the strands of silk behind her ear. He twirled a strand of it around one finger. He thought about whether there was any way he could steal a lock of it without her discovering the theft and deciding he was some kind of social deviant who ought to be committed to an insane asylum or otherwise restrained. He thought about Cho's warning about Volker the stalker's jaw being wired shut. Probably best not to risk it.

He hadn't held a woman in his arms like this in a long time. All of his interludes since Angela had been about release, not comfort. Cuddling hadn't been on the table, so to speak. There had been a few women who had shown interest in getting closer, but he had made it clear that this interest was not mutual. Until now. Until Teresa.

Now, he couldn't get close enough. He'd memorized every syllable she'd uttered, every note she'd played. Still, he wanted more.

But she was leaving. For three months.

Anything could happen in three months. She could get hurt or sick. She could forget him entirely. She could get an offer to stay in Europe that was too good to refuse. Walter Mashburn could decide to come visit her in his private jet and this time refuse to take no for an answer. Or she could meet some handsome French musician who charmed her into agreeing to run off to the Amalfi coast with him and elope.

The thought made him feel as though Daisy the elephant were sitting on his chest.

Teresa sighed in her sleep and shifted against him.

His arm tightened around her involuntarily. He turned his head and indulged the instinct to bury his nose in her spicy, sweet-smelling hair.

It didn't matter what happened tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow could be gray and flat, but tonight… tonight had been the first time he'd seen in color since losing Angela and Charlotte. He thought of Teresa's eyes. Of her slim figure in her t-shirt and leather jacket. He thought about looking up with her at the clear night sky. Tonight, his sea of gray had been interrupted by vivid emerald green, darkest red, and purest indigo blue.

It didn't matter what happened tomorrow. Tonight, this soft, strong woman had trusted him enough to find rest in his arms. Tonight was a gift from the heavens. He would hold her warmth and color to him until daylight came and stole her away.

She shifted closer to him once more. Contentment threaded through him.

He held her to him and gazed up at the starry night.


	6. Chapter 6

Teresa woke just before dawn. Tinges of pink blurred the edge of the inky darkness pressing down on the horizon.

She stirred and shifted against him. "Time 's it?" she mumbled into his vest.

The shifting was highly enjoyable. The talk of time and its implicit relationship to international flight departures, not so much. "Early."

"Wake up," she said drowsily.

"I'm awake," he pointed out. "You're the one that fell asleep."

She blinked. "Right. Get up, then," she ordered, without getting up herself. She still sounded half asleep.

Apparently, Teresa wasn't a morning person. For reasons he couldn't entirely explain to himself, he found this fact thoroughly delightful.

Patrick didn't move. "Why?" Her body was still pressed against his side. There was no way he was budging from this spot without very good reason.

She shoved him away a little to lever herself off him. "We have to go."

Patrick played for time. "Can I buy you breakfast?"

She sat up, adorably mussed. "I need to get my violin."

His heart sank. "Now?"

"Yes."

"What for?" Surely her flight wasn't this early, was it?

"I just thought of something."

"In your sleep?"

"Yes."

"What did you think of?" he asked curiously.

"Something for my song."

This surprised him. "The one you wrote for your mother?"

"Yes. Please, can we go? I don't want to forget it."

He sighed, bowing to the inevitable. "Very well."

He managed to persuade her to stop for pastries and coffee on the way, though he suspected this was mainly because she was one of those people whose higher brain functions didn't come back online until their daily dose of caffeine began coursing through their veins.

She was quiet and distracted the whole way. She downed her coffee in two gulps, then picked at her bear claw absently without appearing to eat much of it. This was distressing. Was this going to be the last he saw of her, anxious and preoccupied?

He'd really been hoping for a proper good-bye.

He refrained from attempting to draw her out further, however. He sensed she wouldn't thank him for pulling her thoughts from her music at a time like this.

He pulled into a parking spot in the San Francisco Symphony's main parking lot, feeling let down. He didn't want to disturb her when she was on the verge of a creative breakthrough, but he couldn't help being disappointed that she apparently intended to disappear off into the sunset—er, sunrise, as it were—without so much a backward glance. He'd been moderately charming, hadn't he? Surely she should feel at least a slight pang about the prospect of leaving him behind.

He looked over at her. Hell, he'd take a mild twinge.

"Wait here," Teresa said shortly. She didn't wait for him to answer. She unbuckled her seatbelt and let herself out of the car almost before he'd come to a complete stop.

He blinked. "Uh…okay," he said aloud to the empty car.

She strode towards the concert hall. She didn't look back.

Patrick shut off the engine and got out of the car. He leaned against the hood and watched her disappear into the building.

The parking lot was deserted. Not a soul in sight. The only other car in the lot was a blue Mustang he presumed belonged to Teresa. It was a newer model, but he deduced from her selection that she was a classic car enthusiast. Interesting. Perhaps she'd spent time restoring older models with her brothers back in Chicago when she was growing up, partly to give them all a way to get around, but also as a way to keep her brothers out of trouble.

He amused himself for several minutes with a pleasant fantasy involving Teresa as mechanic, complete with wrench and a smudge of grease on one cheek that she was in desperate need of help in removing. Naturally, he was only too happy to serve.

Pink stained more of the horizon now, chasing away the darkness. The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but Patrick watched the pre-dawn light refract against the clouds in shifting patterns as the hour of daybreak approached. It really was breathtaking.

The door to the concert hall opened again and Teresa walked back toward him, her violin case in hand.

She set her violin case on the hood of his car and opened the two latches. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it on the hood next to the case. Then she drew out her instrument and bow, holding the violin by the neck as naturally as though it were an extension of her own body. Patrick watched this ritual with interest.

She caught him looking and bit her lip. "I thought you might want to hear it," she said. "My song, I mean."

His heart thrilled at the prospect. "I can't imagine a better start to the day," he said sincerely.

She rewarded him with a small smile. She stepped back so she was several feet away from him. She fitted her violin neatly between her shoulder and chin. She moved her fingers into position against the strings. She raised her bow. Then she closed her eyes and began to play.

The music pierced his chest like an arrow to the heart. Only instead of stopping it, it jolted the tired, worn organ into beating again.

Every note was clear and sweet. The melody took hold of him and refused to relinquish its grip. The lilt and fall of it left him breathless. The depth and richness, utterly captivated. The piece put him in mind of the English moors, where dark skies and rough winds only added to the wild majesty of the landscape. Words could not possibly capture the exquisite grace of this piece. Only a few words could even come close. Heartrending. Haunting. Beautiful.

This song would follow him into his dreams.

Her body swayed with the music. She _was_ the music, made manifest in physical form. Deceptively delicate—in truth, fierce and untamed.

This was a song about grief. About heartbreak so profound the devastation of it held the power to bring one to one's knees. Yet hope wove through it, the darkest forms leavened by notes of light and joy. Above all, it was a song about love, true and unrestrained.

He sat leaning against the hood of the car, enraptured from the first stroke of the bow until the last pure note faded into silence.

When the silence had completely swallowed that last note, Teresa inhaled deeply and came back to herself, opening her eyes. She blinked, adjusting to the harsh reality of leaving her abstracted state and re-entering existence on this temporal plane.

She lowered her bow and instrument, letting them fall to her sides. "Well, um, that was it," she said, sounding a bit nervous. "What did you think?"

Patrick couldn't speak. His heart was too full. He moved towards her as though he were walking through deep water, slow and heavy. He took violin and bow from her gently and went back to the car. He carefully, reverently placed them back into the case and snapped the case safely closed. Then he returned to her side.

Now she looked even more nervous. "Seriously, don't hold back. I can take it. What did you thi—?"

Patrick gathered her into his arms and kissed her just as the sun cleared the horizon, bathing them in golden light.

Her mouth was a miracle. Soft and sweet, rich and warm. She sighed into him and kissed him back. Patrick swayed a bit from the impact of it. He clutched her tighter and held his ground. He put a lot into that kiss, trying to communicate all the things he found words inadequate to express. That the opportunity to hear her music had been an amazing, unexpected gift. How extraordinarily lucky he felt to have received it. Above all, what meeting her had meant to him. What it _did_ mean to him, full stop.

When he finally released her from his kiss, his hands were buried wrist-deep in the silk strands of her hair. He made no move to let her go. He looked into her eyes and discovered he was in as much danger as ever of drowning in the bottomless green pools. Possibly more. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes again. Definitely more. He was going to need to start carrying a life preserver with him wherever he went.

Teresa blinked, a little dazed. "I, uh." She cleared her throat. "I guess that means you liked it."

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the music. He was having difficulty adjusting to the temporal plane, himself. "I loved it."

She bit her lip. "Really?"

"I loved every part of it, from beginning to end," he said sincerely. "I could listen to it every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it."

"High praise," she said softly.

He fixed her with a look. "I meant it."

"I'm glad," she said with a shy smile. "That means a lot."

He kissed her again.

This time she was more prepared. Her answering kiss was teasing, playful. He swallowed a groan. Oh, how he loved that she had a playful side.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed there, kissing in the parking lot. He couldn't get enough of her. And given the way she was gripping the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer to her, it seemed the feeling was at least somewhat mutual.

xxx

The moment was ruined by the decidedly unromantic tones of her cell phone alarm ringing in the pocket of her leather jacket, still on the hood of his car.

She broke away, turning her head towards the offending chime. He didn't let her go.

She rested her forehead against his. "I have to go," she said, with nearly as much regret as he felt.

He ran his hands up and down her bare arms, cool from the crisp morning air. "It's still early," he protested.

She drew away from him reluctantly. She went to her phone and turned off the alarm. "I have a flight to catch."

Patrick watched her shrug back into her leather jacket, already bereft at the loss of her in his arms. "Three months." Just then, it sounded like an eternity.

"Yes. In Paris," she added unnecessarily.

He went to her and kissed her again, snaking his hands beneath the leather jacket to settle at her hips. "That's very far away," he murmured into her mouth.

"Mm," she hummed into his mouth. "I have a long flight ahead of me."

His fingers dug into her hips. "I don't want you to go," he heard himself say.

She raised her head to look him in the eyes. "You just met me."

"I know," he said, gazing back into her clear green eyes. "That doesn't make it any less true, though."

She looked away. "I have to go. I made a commitment."

"I understand," he said, raising his hand to stroke her hair again. "I'm just saying… I wish you didn't have to leave."

"Yeah," she sighed. "The timing sucks, doesn't it?"

He had to chuckle at her succinct summarization. "Yes, it does."

She looked back up at him. "Thank you for tonight. It was wonderful."

"Yes, it was," he agreed. "But it's me who should be thanking you. Thank you for letting me tag along to the club and agreeing to go on a picnic with me in the middle of the night. And for playing me your beautiful song."

"You're welcome." Her alarm started bleating again. She silenced it. "I really have to go now," she said, drawing away again. She picked up her violin case, then turned back to look at him again. "I… I just want you to know, I'll never forget tonight."

"Neither will I," he said, his eyes fixed on hers.

She moved back towards him and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him swiftly on the lips. "Good-bye."

He chased her with his mouth, but she pulled away yet again and stopped him with a finger against his lips. "Good-bye," she repeated, more firmly.

He couldn't bring himself to return a sentiment resounding so deeply of finality. "See you," he said balefully.

She gave him one last look, then turned and walked away.

This was dreadful. She was acting like she was never going to see him again. He couldn't bear the thought.

He didn't take his eyes off her. She caught him watching her and gave him a parting smile before climbing into the car. She started the engine, and then she was gone.

Patrick watched the tail lights of the Mustang disappear down the deserted street, a sharp ache settling deep into his chest. As though he was coming down with a bad chest cold, or possibly pneumonia. It was growing difficult to breathe again.

He gave himself a shake. _Get it together, Patrick,_ he told himself. You just met the woman, for God's sake. What did you expect? That she'd suddenly drop everything, what, just to spend a little more time with you? She struck him as the sensible type—not one to blow off her responsibilities to follow a romantic impulse. Besides, she had obligations. Unlike him, she had a job, a life. She was hardly likely to throw it all over just for the dubious prospect of a worthless, broken-down former con man.

Still, the idea of never seeing her again made him feel sick to his stomach.

He was being overly dramatic. She was only going to be gone for three months. If, after the summer was over, he still felt this gnawing discomfort in his insides at the thought of never seeing her again, he could always make inquiries after she returned from Paris. He could find her again.

September wasn't so very far away, he reasoned. He glanced at the theater building behind him. He could surprise her after her first show back. He could bring flowers. She would be charmed by his thoughtfulness. And then, if they both felt that indescribable spark between them, perhaps he could persuade her to let him court her in earnest. She clearly needed someone to fuss over her. He would hold doors and bring her small gifts and make sure her hair didn't get trapped beneath her collar when he helped her on with her coat. She might be exasperated by his attentiveness and attempts at chivalry at first, but he'd persist. He'd win her in the end.

In the meantime, he could always write. Letters rather than email, because it was more romantic. (Also, because he never had gotten the hang of computers. He could barely type with two fingers). He could con her address in Paris from the San Francisco Symphony powers that be, and he would write to her. Silly things, to amuse her. True things, to secure her trust. Beautiful things, to remind her of what he'd so nearly forgotten these last few years—that life was full of rich, unexpected surprises, and each one was to be treasured like a precious jewel.

He paused, thinking again of that soft mouth and fathomless green eyes. On the other hand, three months _was_ a tad long for his liking. There was that French musician to worry about. Stupid Amalfi coast. There was also the possibility that she might have a change of heart and decide to throw him out on his ear if he showed up with flowers the first night she was back. Or worse, that she could look at him with the indifference of a stranger—that she might forget him entirely.

Perhaps it would be wise to think of some other means of keeping his existence fresh in her mind while she was abroad. Something less easily ignored than a flat envelope with international postage. He ran his fingers absently over the wool of his vest, just over his heart. It still fluttered wildly at the memory of her nearness. Maybe proximity was a factor he ought to reconsider.

His heart beat faster. Perhaps there was a way. He straightened, the first inklings of a plan taking seed in his mind. It was a little crazy, but that was sort of his specialty, wasn't it? Anyway, what did he have to lose? His dignity, possibly. But who cared about that? A small price to pay, given the chance at such great gain. He thought of her mouth again, of her green eyes sparkling at him as she teased him. Really, he couldn't think of any price he wouldn't be willing to pay for such a prize. Besides, even if the plan failed miserably, it wouldn't be a total loss.

After all, Paris was lovely this time of year.


	7. Chapter 7

Patrick pounded on the ornate beveled door of the hotel room and tried to calm his racing heart without success. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but he felt punchy with excitement, almost giddy. Of course, one might argue that was because he hadn't slept in seventy two hours and was verging on delirious, but what did they know? He was going to see her.

"Coming!" a feminine voice called from behind the hotel door.

He straightened and smoothed down the front of his vest, attempting to make himself look presentable. It was pretty much a lost cause. After three days in the same clothes, he was looking decidedly rumpled.

The door opened and there she was, just as lovely as he'd remembered, wearing black capri pants and a royal blue sleeveless top that set off her dark hair and pale complexion in a manner most striking. He drank her in.

She stared at him in unflattering astonishment. "Patrick?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Hi, Teresa."

"What are you doing here?" she said, aghast.

"I came to see you." He gestured at the hotel door. "Can I come in?"

She looked horrified. "You came to see me?"

"Yes. Please, can I come in?"

She drew the door closer to her. "No. What the hell, Patrick?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not? Have you got someone in there with you?" Jeez. Those French musicians worked fast.

"Of course not," she said defensively. The space between her and the door closed another fraction of an inch.

He resisted the urge to plant his foot squarely in front of the door frame. "Then what's the problem?"

"Are you crazy?" she demanded. "You can't just—you can't fly halfway around the world for a woman you just met!"

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Ah, technically, I can." He corrected himself. "I did."

"You're crazy," she repeated.

He watched her. "I knew it was a longshot, but I confess, I was hoping for a slightly warmer welcome. We had a nice time together, didn't we?"

"Of course," she said automatically. She fidgeted. "But that doesn't mean you can just… show up here out of the blue."

"Why not?"

She stuck her chin out stubbornly. "Because."

That was hardly a proper answer. "I'm not crazy," he repeated. "Just tired." Perhaps her attitude would soften if he made himself pathetic enough. "I've been traveling for two days."

"Two days?" she said, poleaxed.

"Yes. I came straight here from the airport."

She peered out into the hallway and looked around him. "Where's your stuff?" she asked suspiciously.

"My stuff?" he repeated.

"Yeah, where's your luggage?"

"I didn't bring any."

"You flew halfway around the world and didn't pack a single bag?" she said, incredulous.

He flashed a grin at her. "Well, it was all rather sudden, you know."

Her eyes narrowed. "How sudden, exactly?"

"It would have been more sudden, but I had to stop at the bank to get my passport from my safety deposit box." He left out the part where he had been obliged to hypnotize the security guard into letting him in because the bank was closed on Sunday. And the further machinations it had taken him to actually gain access to the safety deposit box. Teresa was the honest sort—it would probably be best not to apprise her right away of the range of extra-legal activities he was capable of when he set his mind to it. "What I really wanted to do was surprise you on the plane. I thought that would be more romantic. I could have sprinted through the airport in order to catch you, or perhaps scaled a fence to demonstrate the sincerity of my romantic gesture."

She looked like a deer in headlights. "Romantic?"

"Yes, of course." He gestured to his rumpled, unshaven state. "What kind of grand romantic gesture would it be if I stopped for luggage?"

She frowned. "Are you still wearing the same clothes you were wearing the other night?"

Apparently, she didn't find his unwashed state as romantic as he'd intended. He glossed over this. "The point is, by the time I got to the airport, your flight had already left, and there wasn't another one until later that evening. And then the connecting flight was delayed for over eight hours. Plus the time change. So I didn't even get here until eight am this morning. I think." He trailed off. "What day is it, exactly, anyway?"

"Tuesday," she said flatly.

He nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. Tuesday."

She continued to stare at him as though he were an unpleasant substance she'd found on the bottom of her shoe. "How the hell did you know where to find me, anyway?"

"I called the music director and conned him into giving me the address," he said. "It was surprisingly easy, really. Tricking the hotel staff into coughing up your room number once I got here was much more difficult. Apparently they're very close-lipped about such things. Security concerns, you know."

"Yeah, I'm feeling a security concern right now," she muttered.

"Oh, come now, don't be like that. You don't believe I came here with anything less than the most honorable intentions, do you?"

"How should I know? I've only known you a cumulative total of ten hours and you show up here like some kind of international stalker!"

"Don't be silly. Stalkers don't knock at the front door. They skulk furtively in alleys and, I don't know, behind lamp posts."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "What am I supposed to tell Cho about this to keep him from hopping on the next flight to come here and bust your kneecaps?"

"You can tell Cho that you'll bust my kneecaps yourself, should the need arise." He looked at her strong, fierce form before him. "I'm certain you could incapacitate me with very little effort."

She muttered something distinctly unflattering to his person that had the effect of communicating that she agreed wholeheartedly with this assessment.

This wasn't getting them anywhere. He peered around her and spied a breakfast tray on the coffee table in the living area of the suite. "Are those eggs?" he asked, craning his neck for a better look.

She automatically turned her head to follow his gaze. He took advantage of her temporary inattention to squeeze through the door and slip past her.

She whipped her head around. "Hey!"

She was just a shade too slow to slam the door on him. He ignored her cry of protest and made a beeline to the eggs. "Ah, an omelette," he said. "How delightful." He gestured to the plate and sat down. "Do you mind? I'm starved." He helped himself to a mouthful of the perfectly cooked eggs without waiting for permission.

"That's my breakfast!" she said, outraged. She scurried to his side and snatched the plate away from him. She took a huge bite, her eyes fixed on him like daggers.

Riling her up was a lot of fun, he discovered. "Apologies," he said, not meaning it. "You're quite right. I'll get my own." He picked up the phone on the end table by the couch. "Hello? Yes, could you please send up another mushroom and cheese omelette?" He glanced at Teresa, still shoveling in her omelette and glowering at him. "And a large plate of fruit, please," he added, thinking that perhaps appealing to her sweet tooth would sweeten her temper, as well. "Oh, and while you're at it, would it be possible for you to send up a fresh set of clothes for me? I had a bit of a luggage mishap." He ignored Teresa's strangled noise of protest. "You could? Excellent. Yes, you can charge it to the room. And a pot of tea, please. Thanks very much." He gave the concierge his measurements and rang off.

"'You can charge it to the room?'" Teresa mimicked, glaring at him.

He grinned at her. "Don't worry, I'm good for it."

"You'd better be," she huffed, not the least bit mollified.

"I'll pay you back at the earliest possible convenience," he promised. He'd just have to make sure that the opportunity didn't arise _too_ early. Putting yourself in someone's debt was a foolproof way of ensuring they had some incentive to keep you around. He was happy to owe her. He wanted her in a position close enough to collect. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "Do you mind if I use the facilities?"

"Apparently it doesn't matter if I mind or not," she said sourly. "You're just going to do what you want anyway."

"Thank you, that's very hospitable of you, Teresa," he said, retreating to the bathroom.

He found a robe on the back of the door. Excellent. He flipped the tap on in the bathtub and set about stripping his clothes off.

"What are you doing in there?" Teresa shouted from the living area.

"Just freshening up a bit," he called back.

He heard her approach the door. "Are you _showering_ in there?" she demanded, incredulous.

He opened the door and stuck his head out, only to find her directly in front of him, staring at him in shock. "I thought you would appreciate my presence more if I didn't smell like a man who has been on a plane for two days."

Her jaw dropped in indignation. "Make yourself right at home, why don't you?" she said sarcastically.

"Thanks. I'll just be getting back to it, then," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. Unconsciously, they drifted down his torso, taking in his half-unclothed state.

He raised his eyebrows. "Unless you'd rather join me?"

Her eyes flew back to his. They betrayed the briefest flicker of interest before she succeeded in covering it with a scowl. "Of course not."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He closed the door in her face. He filed that flicker of interest away in his mind for later, though.

He took his time in the shower, investigating the wide range of complimentary bath gels and shampoos provided by the hotel. He found her much larger bottle of shampoo and indulged himself by taking a healthy whiff of the spicy cinnamon scent. He decided he liked it better on her, however, and chose a green tea scented suite of bath products for himself.

When he got out, he found she'd unceremoniously dumped the pile of clothes sent up by the concierge just inside the door. He grinned to himself, surmising that she'd deigned to perform this helpful act not because she was softening to his cause, but because she was afraid of facing him if he wandered out of the bathroom naked.

The clothes weren't what he would have chosen for himself, but they would do in a pinch. He examined the dark blue jeans and black designer t-shirt with interest. The concierge had good taste, at least. He'd very thoughtfully provided socks and underwear, as well. Patrick dressed and returned to the living room.

Teresa was curled up on the couch, picking at the fruit plate and frowning.

He took a seat in the chair kitty corner to the couch and dug into the omelette that had apparently been delivered along with the clothes and fruit tray.

Teresa watched him for a moment. "What are you really doing here?" she asked abruptly.

"Enjoying a perfectly cooked plate of eggs," Patrick said mildly.

She scowled. "Come on, you know what I mean."

He looked deep into her eyes. She raised her eyebrows. He gestured to the fruit plate. "Can I have some fruit?"

"No," she said, drawing the plate protectively towards her. "Answer the question."

"I told you, I came to see you," he said, stealing a slice of orange. She threw a grape at his head. It bounced off his forehead. He recovered it and ate that, too.

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

He considered his answer, well aware that the wrong one could very well lead to her forcibly ejecting him from her room and her life. "Because the other night was extraordinary," he said finally. "Because after knowing you for one night, I know your friendship is worth crossing oceans for. And I'd very much like to be your friend, if you'll let me."

She stared at him. "You came to Paris because you want to be my…friend?"

"Well, I'd also very much like to make love to you at some point, if you're amenable to the idea," Patrick said, taking a bite of his eggs.

She choked a little on her fruit and looked at him, alarmed.

"I recognize that is a privilege I will have to earn, however," Patrick continued, unfazed. "I want to woo you properly, with all the care and attention you deserve. But if you're not interested in exploring that side of things, I can learn to live with it. The friendship is the critical thing, you see."

"You realize you sound like a lunatic, don't you?" she said. "I mean, you understand that flying across the world and barging into the hotel room of a woman you just met is not normal behavior, right?"

"What's so great about normal? You've been out with normal guys before, haven't you?"

"Of course," she said, annoyed.

"So what did they do, after spending an amazing night with you in their arms?"

She turned red. "I dunno," she muttered. "Called or texted me the next morning."

"And look what happened to them," he said dismissively.

"Nothing happened to them!" she said defensively. "They're all living perfectly nice lives."

He nodded. "Yes. Without you."

"I—" she stopped, clearly disarmed. "That's not—"

"Honestly," he said, shaking his head. "Texts and phone calls. How trite and unimaginative."

She rallied her defenses. "It's at least not bordering on insane and irresponsible!"

"Let's leave the question of sanity aside for the time being," Patrick said smoothly. One had to choose one's battles, after all. It was preferable to choose the ones one had a prayer at winning. "How is me deciding to come to Paris irresponsible?"

"It must have cost a fortune!"

He shrugged. "So? I have money."

"You can't just leave everything in your life behind at a moment's notice," she said desperately.

What life? he was tempted to ask. There was nothing tying him to California except habit and memories. Since stating flatly that he had no life to speak of would be pathetic, he rephrased. "I don't have to work. I don't have a lot of close social connections. Why shouldn't I fly to Paris on a moment's notice?"

She inhaled deeply through her nose. "It's too big. It's too much."

He read the anxiety in her countenance. Well, he'd just have to do something about that. "I know what's happening here," he announced.

"What's that?" she asked warily.

He pointed his fork at her. "I'm not crazy. You felt this thing between us just as much as I did the other night, I know you did. But when you said good-bye to me, you wrote me off as a fond memory, assuming you'd never see me again."

"Well, that was only logical," she huffed. "I'd just met you, and I was leaving for Paris for three months!"

Meh. Logic. A highly overrated way of looking at the world. "Exactly. You didn't think you'd ever have to face what that night really meant to either of us. And now that I'm here in the flesh, you don't know what to do with me."

"That last part is true enough," she said under her breath.

"Well, I don't want to be a fond memory," he informed her. "I want to be part of your life. And I want you to be part of mine."

"You flew halfway around the world to avoid becoming a fond memory?" she said incredulously. "You really are crazy."

He smiled at her. She really was cute when she was attempting to reason with someone she obviously considered at least somewhat mentally unstable. "Forgive me. This has never happened to me before. I'm not familiar with the protocol."

"What's never happened to you before?" she asked warily.

Falling for someone in the course of a single night, he thought. He gestured back and forth between them with one finger. "This… connection between us."

She feigned innocence. "What connection?"

"Don't do that," he said softly. "Don't pretend you don't feel it, too."

"Maybe it's the jet lag," she muttered.

"I've never felt something so instantaneous for anyone before," he told her, ignoring the crack about the jet lag. "With my wife, it was completely different."

"Your _wife_?" she squeaked, looking more freaked out than ever.

"We were kids together, grew up together," he explained. "It all happened very gradually. I'd already known her forever when we fell in love."

"Who said anything about love?" Teresa demanded. She looked like she was about to hyperventilate.

"My point is, it's terrifying, isn't it?" he persisted. "No matter the manner of it."

"What?" she asked, looking as though she were afraid of the answer.

"Letting someone get close to you," he said. "It's like donning body armor to protect yourself from the rest of the world, and then handing this person a weapon that can puncture it like it was no stronger than a paper bag. It's especially difficult for people like us."

"People like us?" she echoed.

"People who have experienced great loss," he explained.

She looked away. "Oh."

"What do you say?" he asked lightly. "If I handed you an armor-piercing spear, would you accept it?"

She looked back at him, her expression inscrutable. "Eat your omelette," she said finally.

He smiled to himself and ate his omelette.

Xxx

"So what are your plans?" she asked him brusquely once he'd finished his eggs. Clearly, she was determined to turn the conversation to more neutral territory while she considered what to do with him.

He sipped his tea. "My plans?"

"Yes. Your plans. What are you going to do with yourself, now that you're here?" she asked, a challenge in her tone.

He sensed that 'follow you around like a lovesick dog,' was not the answer she was looking for. "Well, I'll probably do a little shopping," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "Replenish my wardrobe a bit." One wrinkled suit and a single outfit selected by a stranger would only get one so far.

She relaxed ever so slightly. "Good idea."

He watched her closely, cataloguing her reactions. "I thought I might walk around a bit. Do some sightseeing."

"That's great," she said, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "It's a beautiful city. Have you ever been here before?"

"Yes," he said, deciding to leave out the details of the con he'd been running at the time that had brought him here in the first place. "But that was many years ago. Do you have any recommendations?"

"I think you'd like the Louvre," she told him, forgetting her wariness and falling back into the easy rhythm of conversation they'd established over the course of their long night together. "And the Tuileries Garden. I like to people watch there. The flowers there are lovely this time of year. And of course it's always nice to take a walk along the Seine. And then there's Montmartre, and Sacre Coeur…"

He watched her, enchanted by the way her eyes lit up as she thought of each special place. "Which is your favorite?"

She pondered this. "Honestly, I think my favorite thing to do in Paris is just to walk around without any particular agenda in mind and just see what you see." Her eyes went wistful. "You know, to just… wander."

"Wandering sounds excellent," he agreed. He hoped he'd be able talk her into letting him wander with her at some point. The notion of getting lost in Paris with Teresa was decidedly appealing.

She looked back at him. "What else?"

"What else, what?" he asked, taking another sip of his tea.

"What else are you going to do while you're here?" she prompted him.

"I'd really like to hear you play again," he told her. Every night, if possible.

She wavered, but relented in the end. "That could probably be arranged," she said cautiously.

This was encouraging. It sounded like she was coming around to the idea of him being around on a regular basis. He took a sip of tea to hide his pleasure, lest she think he was getting ahead of himself and decide to throw him out after all.

"I think I'd like to enjoy some fine French cuisine while I'm here, too," he went on. He regarded her over the top of his teacup. "I'm hoping I can convince you to join me in that endeavor at some point."

He could see she was tempted. He watched logic and desire wage battle behind her eyes.

"Oh, I—" she flushed. "Um. Sure. Maybe."

Her natural longing for companionship was winning, at least for the time being. Ha. He knew she wasn't indifferent to him! This was real progress. "Wonderful."

She cut her eyes away, flustered. "So, uh, where are you staying?"

He looked around the room. "This place seems pretty nice." Maybe he'd get a room next door. They could be neighbors. He was sure he'd see her often if he lived next door to her. And he could keep an eye out for those pesky French musicians.

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you inviting yourself to move in now?"

"Are you offering?" he teased.

"This place only has one bed!"

"So?" he said, unable to resist teasing her. "I already know you don't mind cuddling."

"Never mind that," she said, flushing again. "I only meant—well, I wouldn't put it past you."

He wouldn't put it past him either. "I thought we'd table the issue of cohabitation for the moment. Wouldn't want to rush into anything," he said with a wink. "We can always revisit the topic once we've gotten to know each other a bit better. You know, in a few days."

She threw another grape at his head. "Very funny."

He grinned, pleased that she was relaxed enough with him to give him a hard time. "Will you be here all summer?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "This place is way nicer than I could afford on my own."

"How did you come to be here in the first place?" he asked curiously.

"The Paris Orchestra is putting me up for a few days as a courtesy while I look for a place to sublet for the summer," she explained.

"Guess you're a pretty desirable commodity for them to go to all that trouble for you," he remarked. He didn't need her affirmation. He could vouch for that himself.

"They've been very kind," she demurred.

"So modest," he chuckled. "Maybe you should hire me as your agent while I'm here. If you can get them to put you up in a place like this without even asking for it, imagine what you could get with a master negotiator on your side."

She looked amused. "Now you're a master negotiator?"

"Certainly. I've gotten this far with you, haven't I?"

"I wouldn't say negotiation has been the primary skill you've employed since you got here," she said dryly.

"See, that just proves my point," he said loftily. "You are seeing negotiation in its highest form—the kind where the negotiated party doesn't even realize they're being negotiated with."

She shook her head, smiling. "You're ridiculous."

"One of my better qualities," he admitted. He set down his teacup and stifled a yawn.

"You look tired," she observed.

"I didn't sleep on the plane," he confessed. He looked at her couch longingly. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to take a nap on the couch with me, could I?"

"Now you're inviting me to sleep on the couch in my own room?" she asked, exasperated.

"Well, as we've established, I haven't acquired my own accommodations yet. And your accommodations look very… accommodating."

"I'm not taking a nap with you," she said firmly.

"You've already slept with me," he pointed out. "It's a little late to be getting prudish at this point, don't you think?"

A flush crept up her neck, though she tried to keep her expression neutral. "Not…like that."

"Hm," he said, surveying the couch. "It's true, the hood of my car was more spacious. Of course, if it's room to stretch you're after, we could always go crazy and sleep in the bed."

"Or you could find a nice park bench somewhere," she suggested with a smirk.

"I'm not completely opposed to the park bench idea," he told her. "But I'd much rather share my nap with you than a bunch of pigeons."

"Very flattering," she remarked.

He perked up. "Is that a yes?"

She shook her head. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I have to leave for rehearsal."

Patrick's face fell. "Oh."

She bit her lip. "Look, I'm probably going to regret this, but… you can sleep here for a bit while I'm gone, if you want."

Hope stirred in his chest. This was encouraging. She was adapting to his outrageous behavior more quickly than he had any right to expect. "That's a very generous offer," he commented.

She cut her eyes away. "Well, you look a little worse for the wear."

He fell for her a little harder at that. She acted tough, but she was awfully soft-hearted under that brusque exterior. He bet if he took a nap on her couch, she'd wait until he was asleep and drape a blanket over him when she was sure he wouldn't catch her tender-hearted gesture.

He considered the offer. On the one hand, lingering in the hotel room until she returned would virtually guarantee further interaction between the two of them, forcing her to deal with him when she got back. Of course, that could backfire. If he stayed too long, she might get fidgety and decide to physically eject him from her space. He calculated rapidly. "What time do you have to leave for rehearsal?"

She glanced at the clock and grimaced. "Now, pretty much."

On the other hand, he could sleep when he was dead, he reasoned. "I'll walk you there." For now, he would take the opportunity to remain in her presence as long as possible.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "How did you know I was going to walk?"

"It's Paris," he said by way of explanation.

She shook her head. "Right."

She went into the bedroom to retrieve her violin. He waited for her by the door.

"Ready?" she said briskly when she joined him, violin case in hand.

"Certainly," he said. He looked at the violin case fondly. It felt like an old friend. He gestured to it. "May I carry your violin for you?"

She looked at him measuringly, as though weighing up in her mind whether or not he was to be trusted with such a precious object. "All right," she said finally.

"I won't let any harm come to it," he promised.

"You'd better not," she said sternly, and handed it over.

He took the violin and opened the door for her. "After you."

She looked as though she were about to say something, but then she shook her head a little and turned back to the door. She started forward, then stopped halfway across the threshold. She turned back towards him, almost bumping into him. He'd been following rather closely. She took a deep breath and addressed his chest. "Yes."

He looked at her inquiringly.

"Yes to the friendship thing," she clarified. "I'll be your friend."

His face lit up. "You will?"

She studied his face. Instead of answering, she said abruptly, "Let me ask you something."

"Yes?"

She looked at him intently. "If I sent you away right now and told you I never wanted to see you again, would you go?"

His face fell. He tried not to show how crushed he was at the thought, focusing on her instead. He looked back into her eyes. "Yes. If that was what you wanted."

"The thing is, I don't think that is what I want," she said slowly.

He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Really?"

"That would be the rational thing to do," she said ruefully. "To send away a man who followed you halfway around the world after knowing you one night. I know that. But I… I don't know. You don't feel like a stranger to me. Even though I've only known you a day, it feels longer. I feel like I've never known anyone as well as you. And that no one has ever known me better than you do, even after only one night. Part of me feels that if I sent you away… that if I never saw you again…" She took another deep breath. "Part of me knows that if I sent you away, I would regret it the rest of my life."

"That was why I had to come," he said softly. "I don't want to live with that kind of regret."

She bit her lip. "I don't either."

"So… you'll be my friend?" he said hopefully.

"Well, you're obviously high maintenance and you apparently don't have an entirely firm grip on reality," she said, shaking her head. "But you seem like a good man." She tilted her head and looked into his eyes. "Something tells me you might be a friend worth having."

He grinned. "High maintenance, huh? You sure you want to take that on?"

She gave him an arch look. "I enjoy a challenge."

He chuckled. "Well, that's lucky."

She smiled back, then turned and started down the hall. He placed a hand at the small of her back and followed.

Xxx

When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, he took her hand in his.

She glanced down at their joined hands and raised her eyebrows.

"What?" he said innocently. "Friends can't hold hands?"

She shook her head, but she didn't pull away. Hand in hand, they stepped out onto the streets of Paris.

Patrick breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of fresh bread as they passed a boulangerie. He spied a patisserie and resolved to surprise Teresa with pastries one day while they were here.

He reveled in the sensation of her fingers threaded through his and reflected on his lot with satisfaction. The film of ice that had encapsulated his heart for the better part of the last five years cracked and melted into warmth and contentment. He was… happy. It was a strange concept. He looked over at Teresa, her hair fluttering in the breeze as she walked, her stride long and confident. The sunlight caught glints of red in her dark hair. Happiness. He thought he could get used to it. He stepped closer to her and walked on.

They must have walked about twenty minutes, at least, but to Patrick, it felt like no more than a breath. All too soon, she stopped. Patrick blinked and paused, half a beat behind her.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gestured to an ornate mid-nineteenth century building behind her. "This is me."

Patrick looked around him. The streets of Paris bustled around them, people walking to work, walking their dogs, walking to destinations unknown. Shopkeepers tended their shops. A flower seller set out a basket of tulips on his front steps. The Seine curled lazily behind them. A grand cathedral rose up on the opposite shore, dominating the backdrop. The silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, just visible in the distance, completed the scene.

He looked into her eyes. "When can I see you again?"

She bit her lip. "Well… I'm done with rehearsal at four."

"Really?" he said, delighted.

"Sure," she said awkwardly. "You know, if you want to," she added hastily.

"Of course I do," he assured her. "I'll be right here waiting for you. Four o clock."

She smiled at him shyly. "Okay."

He stepped forward and kissed her. He didn't mean to—it just happened, without him ever forming any conscious intention to do so. His right hand clenched the handle of the violin case. His left snaked around her waist and held her to him. Then, since he was there, he deepened the kiss, taking his time to get to know her mouth better. He felt the subject merited considerably further study.

"In your mind, is this something friends do, too?" she asked, a little breathless, when he released her from the kiss.

He smiled down at her. "Well… we are in France." He kissed her again, unable to resist.

"All right," she sighed a moment later, clutching at his upper arms. "Yes to the wooing thing, too."

He tightened his grip on her. "I'm glad."

He would make her happy, he resolved. He'd help her find an apartment, because although the hotel she was staying in was nice, it was still a hotel, and she deserved a home. He would find her somewhere she'd be comfortable—somewhere charming and cozy. In Montmartre, perhaps. Somewhere beautiful and romantic, where he could walk her home under the street lights of Paris. He'd take her to meals and ensure she had all the best French delicacies available to her. He'd escort her to the theater and listen to her play. Even though she was far from home, she would always know at least one person in the audience. He'd take her on outings and make sure she didn't get lonely when she wasn't working. He'd entertain and amuse her, to make sure she didn't get so absorbed in her work she forgot to have fun once in a while. He would make her smile. He would take care of her.

She kissed him again. "I have to go."

He groaned. "Don't leave yet. This is such a perfect day. And we're in such a perfect place." He punctuated his plea with another heartfelt kiss.

"This is really unfair," she complained, bringing her hand up to rest on his chest. "You're using Paris against me. How am I supposed to be sensible when you have the city of romance on your side?"

He nibbled her delectable lower lip. "Sensible is overrated."

"Give me my violin," she said into his mouth.

Reluctantly, he handed it over. Their fingers brushed as they made the exchange.

He bent his head and claimed her mouth again. He would never get enough of that taste, he was certain. Not if he lived a thousand years.

She kissed him back, then pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. "I'm leaving now."

He gazed at her with longing. "If you must, you must."

"I must," she sighed. She stepped away from him, then hesitated.

"What is it?" he asked, intrigued by the weight of that pause.

She bit her lip again. "I wanted to tell you—I started a new song. On the plane."

"Really?" he said, pleased. "That's great."

She blushed furiously. "It's kind of… about you."

"Reeeally," he drawled, delighted. "No one's ever written me a song before."

"I thought maybe you'd like to hear it, once it's finished."

He gazed at her fondly. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

"Good," she said, pleased. "It's a date."

"I look forward to it," he said softly.

She smiled. "Great."

"I'll see you later."

She tilted her head to one side. "Four o clock?"

"Four o clock," he confirmed.

She smiled at him once more, a breathtaking thing that lit up her whole face, then headed into the building.

He watched her go, his fingers absently drifting to his chest. His heart was beating too fast again. He thought about her clear green eyes, and it went to double time. A deep, pleasant ache filled his chest, sweet and heavy. He breathed deeply, savoring the sensation.

It wasn't so bad, feeling again.

The End


End file.
